£2^^£^£-^' 

/ 


" 


THE  SHEAF: 


A     BUNDLE    OF    POEMS, 


BY 


GEORGE  CASTLE  RANKIN. 


"  Hi  ml  vp  the  sheaf 

<>f  thy  f/atheretl  t/touy/it.''1 


MINNEAPOLIS  : 

J  A  A!  K  S     S  .    R  A  N  K.  I  N  . 

1882. 


Copyright,  1882,  by 
JAMES  S..  RANKIN. 


INTRODUCTION. 

"TiiE  SHEAF,"  the  first  piece  of  this  collection,  was  written 
while  the  author  was  working  in  the  wheat  fields  of  Clay  Co., 
and  was  accidentally  preserved  from  the  usual  fate  of  his  ear 
lier  productions.  It  suggested  the  title  to  this  volume,  and 
was  therefore  given  the  post  of  honor.  ' '  The  Prophet's  Ap 
peal,"  which  commences  on  the  second  page,  was  published 
in  1877,  when  the  author  was  sixteen  years  old.  If  a  strict 
chronological  arrangement  had  been  followed  it  would  have 
been  placed  first,  followed  by  "  The  Sheaf,"  "  The  Prairie 
Fire,"  "Defeated,"  and  "  Thanksgiving,"  in  the  order  named. 
The  greater  part  of  his  literary  work  during  his  eighteenth 
year,  so  far  as  preserved,  will  be  found  in  the  first  part  of  this 
book. 

"  The  Prairie  Fire  "  was  suggested  by  seeing  a  young  man, 
armed  with  a  match,  start  an  extensive  conflagration.  "  By 
the  River  in  Winter  "  describes  a  valley  of  the  Buffalo  River 
in  Clay  County,  where  the  trees,  unlike  those  of  Minnesota  gen 
erally,  really  looked  like  "pillars."  large,  straight  and  up 
right,  and  the  "  beaver  stumps  "  were  abundant.  The  small 
stream,  at  this  point,  rushing  down  from  the  uplands  to  the 
valley,  is  pure,  winding,  well  shaded  and  otherwise  attractive, 
and  had  its  full  share  in  awakening  the  poetic  sensibilities 
of  the  city  boy  who  had  so  suddenly  found  himself  in  this  n<>\v 
world  of  nature  and  freedom.  For  him  it  was  a  life  full  of 
•health  to  body  and  mind.  He  grew  rapidly,  and  expanded  in 
every  way — leading  continually  to  the  sad  thought  of  "what 
-J  might  have  been  "  could  he  have  remained  there. 


/ 

S6S814 


iv  IN  Tn  OD  UCTION. 

As  previously  announced,  LUTHER  OSMOKN,  Esq.,  of  the 
Glyndon  Newt>,  whose  acquaintance  with  the  deceased  ren 
dered  him,  in  great  measure,  independent  of  other  sources  of 
information,  consented  to  prepare  the  "  suitable  biographical 
memoirs,"  which  are  generally  appropriate  in  such  cases,  and 
seemed  to  be  demanded  in  this.  Mr.  Osborn's  paper  contains 
a  note  which  says,  •' '  Biographical  Sketch  '  would  be  a  misno 
mer;  call  this  a  'MEMORY  LEAF.'  You  will  prepare  the  Intro 
duction."  It  being  too  late  to  make  other  arrangements,  I  find 
it  convenient  to  use  Mr.  Osborn's  very  acceptable  contribution 
as  a  part  of  this  introductory  chapter. 

MEMORY  LEAF. 

I  count  it  a  strange,  sad  joy  to  write  a  preface  to  the  works 
of  George  Castle  Rankin.  In  this  case  I  cannot  claim  to  be 
an  impartial  friend  or  critic  —  but  partiality  for  the  dead  is  safe, 
and  may  be  praiseworthy.  I  warmly  admired  his  graces  and 
gifts,  and  fervently  thank  God  for  the  gift  of  grace  that  lighted 
up  his  last  year  with  the  one  thing  needful  to  poet  or  artist 
strength  or  beauty.  I  plead  guilty  to  an  enthusiasm  for  my 
youthful  friend  and  the  work  of  his  fancy,  whose  color  is 
heightened  by  remembering  what  hand  I  had  in  bringing 
him  before  men  as  a  verse-writer.  Readers  of  this  book  are 
entitled  to  know  this  my  bias,  and  may  make  the  most  of  it. 

A  rare  acquaintanceship  with  the  father  of  young  Rankin, 
begun  at  Minneapolis  in  1876,  was  the  way  I  came  to  know 
him  at  fifteen  years — a  shy  youth,  gentle  to  femininity,  im 
pressing  me  not  strongly  so  much  as  strangely  among  printing- 
office  associates.  Brought  together  but  casually  until  1878,  to 
me  he  was  during  those  two  years  only  the  elder  son  of  his 
father,  my  friend.  Then  Providence  brought  me  to  Clay 
County,  where  I  founded  a  newspaper  and  met  George  again , 


INTRODUCTION.  v 

u  young  country  schoolmaster  and  farm  worker.  lie  entered 
my  new  printing  office  in  Glyndon,  and  likewise  became  a 
member  of  my  household.  For  almost  a  year  that  he  was  with 
me,  in  humble  labors,  at  meagre  compensation,  I  never  quite 
solved  the  problem  of  his  industrial  status  :  in  all  the  daily 
grime  of  types  and  smear  of  ink,  there  was  a  refinement  of 
spirit,  a  gentle  individuality,  and  an  unconscious  self-assertion 
so  allied  to  faithful  duty-doing  as  to  keep  it  ever  an  open  ques 
tion  whether  we  were  master  and  apprentice  so  much  as  learn 
ers  of  each  other —  myself  generally  at  the  foot!  I  had  had 
hints  of  his  blossoming  powers  as  an  artist  in  rhyming,  not 
clear  enough  to  make  my  first  requests  imperative  in  regard  to 
his  writing  for  the  yews.  He  was  coy  indeed.  But  after  two 
months,  when  November  was  closing  and  expectation  had 
lulled,  a  bit  of  MS.  on  my  desk  rewarded  my  effort  and  wait 
ing.  The  production  is  here  given  as  "  Thanksgiving"  ;  and  I 
remember  with  what  peculiar  relish  it  came  for  that  festival 
week's  i?sue  of  the  yews,  whose  leading  editorial  utterance 
had  a  certain  sombreness  which  some  of  the  paper's  good 
friends  were  pleased  to  say  was  doleful  !  Possibly  George's 
author  courage  had  been  helped  to  the  sticking  point  by  my 
reprinting  the  week  before  from  the  Collegian,  of  Granville, 
Ohio,  "The  Prairie  Fire,"  which  was  the  second  in  order  of 
his  poems  that  had  seen  print.  There  followed,  written  for  the 
News,  the  "  Scourge  of  the  South,"  in  the  '78  day  of  yellow 
fever  relief;  "  The  Old  Year,"  a  watch-night  production;  and 
later  in  the  winter  "  By  the  River"  appeared.  At  this  came  a 
bree/e  of  interest  that  showed  his  writing  was  claiming  neigh 
borhood  attention,  at  least.  One  of  many  straws  that  showed 
the  way  this  breeze  was  blowing  was  a  whispered  asking  of 
me  one  day,  by  a  generous  patron  and  good  critic,  if  George 
did  really  write  that  piece  !  His  contributions  to  the  News 
did  not  cease  with  his  return  to  Minneapolis,  in  1879, 


vi  I  \TIIODUCTION. 

though   they   always   merited  the  wider  and  more  enduring 
audience  which  his  death  and  this  volume  unite  to  give  them. 

It  was  notable,  as  1870  and  1880  went  on,  how  his  writings 
gathered  maturity  and  strength.  I  instance  the  poem  on 
"Solitude,"  published  August,  1880.  Others  appeared  in  other 
prints,  some  of  them  never  yet  seen  by  me,  which  is  also  true 
of  the  larger  number  left  by  him  in  manuscript  only.  This 
writing  purports  to  give  a  mere  fragmentaiy  view  of  his  works 
but  my  faith  is  implicit  that  a  careful  perusal  of  all  these  pages 
will  call  from  the  candid  reader  and  lover  of  poetry  a  tribute 
of  praise  beside  which  my  own  shall  seem  tame  indeed. 

His  was  no  reckless  muse.  Nature's  generous  gifts  to  him 
stopped  short  of  sinful  prodigality.  His  rare  power  of  ex 
pression  had  not  the  sort  of  ease  which  would  make  it  cheap. 
George  Kankin  could  always  find  gold,  but  he  dug  for  it;  and 
he  believed  in  getting  it  whether  it  lay  in  the  placer  or  the 
rock.  Only  right  words  are  the  faithful  servants  of  poetic 
thought;  he  believed  in  trained  servants.  I  have  known  of 
his  patient  brooding  over  a  word  or  a  phrase  that  the  gold  he 
found  might  be  refined  gold;  he  fashioned  his  muse  with  the 
art  instinct  and  conscience  as  ministering  spirits  to  his  divine 
gift.  He  observed,  read,  and  at  his  age  wrought  to  wonderful 
purpose.  The  boy  of  fifteen  was  familiar  with  Shakespeare, 
Longfellow,  and  other  masters  of  the  past  and  present.  He 
had  never  had  the  drill  of  the  text-book  in  grammar  or  rhe 
toric  ;  two  years  comprised  all  his  school  days.  He  was  of  a 
sedate  turn  ;  in  mixed  social  throngs  he  would  be  classed  gen 
erally  among  the  retiring  ones,  and  by  his  associates,  as  pe 
culiar.  Truth  was,  he  moved  in  a  maze  at  the  common  small- 
talk  of  such  gatherings  ;  but  in  the  quieter  home  circle  his 
companionship  was  most  genial,  his  conversation  receptive 
and  stimulating.  Sober,  indeed,  but  this  soberness  the  calm 


/  y  TE  OD  UCTION.  v  ii 

hope  of  one  who  had  early  solved  much  of  life's  serious  ta.sk 
and  written  Peace  for  the  end  thereof. 

During  the  years  of  his  writing  he  was  a.  toiler  with  his 
hands  for  a  livelihood,  a  compositor  in  Minneapolis  printing 
offices.  His  versifying  \vas  in  hours  of  leisure  —  if  leisure 
ever  comes  to  such  souls.  His  devotion  to  "Mother"  was  of 
rare  degree  and  beautiful  ;  the  full  fruit  of  its  lavish  return 
cannot  be  measured.  For  nil  the  house  he  was  an  inspiration, 
in  cheery  presence,  or  sunny  letters  when  absent.  His  verses 
afford  a  taste  of  his  nature  —  his  love  of  field,  wood  and  stream 
at  all  seasons  ;  open-air  activities  were  a  delight,  and  we  may 
run  and  read  how  bountifully  he  brought  back  sheaves  for  our 
mutual  rejoicing. 

A  burning  fever  marked  out  his  way  to  final  rest  just  as  the 
open  door  of  legal  manhood  was  readied.  I  read  a  lesson  in 
this  life  which  found  an  end  in  its  beginning,  like  that  in  the 
storv  of  the  walk  to  Emmaus  ;  and  to-day  do  not  our  hearts 
ache  and  burn  within  us  with  a  precious  sense  of  loss  which 
those  who  loved  and  were  loved  by  him  may,  if  they  will, 
make  a  divine  presence  with  them  always,  even  to  the  end  of 
tbe  world  ! 

O  vanished  friend,  till  now  we  had  not  known  thee, 
80  sightless  man  midst  light  that  Heaven  doth  give,  — 

Praise  waits  on  tears  ;   thou'rt  glorified  and  free, 
Who,  dying,   hast  begun  to  live  ! 

LUTHER  OSBOKX. 
GLYNDON,  Minn. 

"Little  Nell  "  was  among  the  latest  of*his  productions,  and 
one  over  which  he  lingered  lovingly.  "  Minnetonka  "  was  the 
result  of  his  only  holiday  trip  over  the  waters  of  that  beautiful 
lake.  "My  Father's  House"  records  incidents  connected  \vitb 
tbe  work  of  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Association  in  this 


viii.  INTROV  UCTION. 

city,  in  which  he  had  become  deeply  interested.  His  longest 
poem,  "Memories  of  Christmas,"  which  has  been  published  in 
pamphlet  form,  is  (with  a  number  of  other  pieces,)  necessarily 
excluded  from  this  volume. 

In  closing  these  constrained  and  imperfect  references  to  the 
work  and  life  of  one  so  dear,  I  must  be  permitted  for  once  to 
speak  out  more  naturally,  at  least,  while  saying  that  Georgie 
lived  the  life  of  moral  and  literary  ejevation  which  his  poems 
indicate.  "St.  Valentine"  records  his  ideal  of  womanhood, 
—  his  reverence  for  God  is  manifest  every  where.  .  In  these 
two  essentials  of  a  healthy  nature  his  "songs  gushed  from  his 
heart;"  and  from  the  time  when,  as  a  boy  on  the  knee,  his 
voice  rang  out  triumphantly  while  reading  or  repeating  the 
swelling  chorus,  "Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates,  even  lift 
them  up,  ye  everlasting  doors,  and  the  King  of  Glory  shall 
come  in,"  until  the  end,  he  could  not  read  what  was  low  in 
character  or  expression.  His  daily  conversation  was  governed 
by  the  same  love  of  moral  and  artistic  worth  and  beauty.  To 
this  testify  his  most  intimate  associates.  And  here  I  may  prop 
erly  as  well  as  gratefully  acknowledge  that  this  book  perhaps 
owes  its  existence  to  the  very  general  and  hearty  support  given 
to  a  doubtful  enterprise  by  his  fellow  craftsmen  — to  whom  and 
to  others  who  have  also  greatly  aided  and  encouraged  me  in  this 
strange  work,  it  is  a  privilege  thus  to  acknowledge  obligations. 

On  March  7th  Georgie  started  homewards  —  unwell.  While 
wuit.ingfor  a  friend,  he  wrote  the  fragment  which  occupies  the 
last  page  of  this  volume.  His  illness  was  the  beginning  of 
a  severe  attack  of  typhoid  fever.  From  the  first  the  result  was 
feared.  He  died  March  22,  1882,  twenty-one  and  a  half  years 
old.  Loving  life.  a,nd  looking  forward  to  one  of  usefulness 
and  honor,  he  spoke  often  afid  cheerfully  of  his  willingness  to 
exchange  life  for  life.  JAMES  S.  IIANK.IN". 

MINNEAPOLIS,  .July  1882. 


CONTENTS. 

Page. 

THE  SHEAF 

THE  PROPHET'S  APPEAL 2 

THE  PRAIRIE  FIRE 8 

BY  THE  RIVER  IN  WINTER 1 

THE  PLOUGH 15 

THANKSGIVING 18 

THE  STARS - 21 

COURAGE  IN  DEATH 22 

A  WINTER  TWILIGHT 23 

AFTER  A  SUNSET 25 

THE  OLD  YEAR 

ONE  SONG  MORE  , 28 

SOLITUDE 32 

THE  WIND'S  SONG 35 

THE  LOON 37 

THE  PLOUGHMAN  40 

THE  WHITE  GRAVE 

THE  SCOURGE  OF  THE  SOUTH 

ANGEL  OF  MERCY ,51 

SONNET  —  A  GOOD  LIFE 54 

HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK 

ON  CRUELTY  TO  ANIMALS 57 

SONG  OF  COURAGE 59 

THE  BIRD  OF  PASSAGE 62 

ix 


x  CONTENTS. 

THE  TKUE  POET 66 

THE  WANDEBEE'S  SONG 70 

THE  UNSEEN  HARVEST 73 

THE  FALLS 77 

DEDICATION  FOB  A  SCBAP-BOOK 81 

LOVE  AND  DEATH 82 

ST.  VALENTINE 83 

THE  LAST  HOUR 86 

BABY  BESSIE 89 

A  PBAYEB 91 

THE   SNOW  FALL  . 93 

SONNET  —  THE  MOON'S   ECLIPSE 94 

CABLYLE , 95 

To  A  YOUNG   MAN 99 

THE  MILLS  —  A  FANCY 101 

VICTOBY   IN    DEATH 104 

FAME  105 

THE   SABBATH 107 

THE   FATAL   SEARCH 109 

UNWRITTEN  POETRY 110 

THE  DYING  ACTOB 113 

DEFEATED 116 

FLOWERS   FROM   THE   BATTLE-FIELD 119 

THE   MESSAGE  OF  THE  LILY 122 

CONSOLATION 123 

THE  CYNIC'S  REVERIE 126 

INNOCENCE 130 

RUPERT  ALMAYNE 132 

''  His  SOUL  is  MABCHING  ON  " 135 

LINES •. . , 140 

AWE 144 

GABFIELD 147 

THROUGH   THE   GATE  .  . .  149 


C'O.\TK\TS.  xi 

UNDER  THE  MOON 154 

IN   MEMORIAM  . .  » 157 

MlNNETONKA 161 

MY    FATHER'S  HOUSE 169 

THE  SACRED  CHAMBER 175 

LITTLE  NELL  IN  THE  CHURCH-TOWER 179 

CHRIST'S   COMPANIONSHIP 182 

SONNET  —  PATIENCE 184 

TRIBUTES  TO  FRIENDSHIP 185 

LAST  WORDS  —  A  FRAGMENT  . .  . .  192 


"  Kead  from  some  humble  poet, 
Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start. 

"  Who,  through   long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies." 

--LONGFELLOW. 


THE 


Bind  up  the  sheaf 

Of  the  bearded   gold; 
Soon  falls  the  leaf, 

And  the  air  grows  cold; 
And  Winter  comes  and  will  wait  for  none 
That  sweat  with  toil  in  the  Autumn  sun. 

Bind  up  the  sheaf 

Of    thy  ripened    mind 
Ere  the  frost  of  grief 

Has  left  behind, 

Ruined  and  reft,  in  the  fields  of  the  past, 
The  deeds  thou  hadst  purposed  to  do  at  last, 

Bind  up  the  sheaf 

Of  thy  gathered  thought; 
Thy  time  is  brief, 

And  thy  life  is  naught 
If  ne'er  a  sheaf  of  the  treasured  grain 
Shall  prove  thy  life  not  used  in  vain. 
1 


THE  PROPHET'S  APPEAL. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  Forest, 

In  the  dusky  realm  of  evening, 

When  the  night's  approaching  footsteps 

Passed  along  the  dim  horizon; 

When  the  sighing  of  the  West-Wind 

Stirred  the  leaves  of  oak  and  maple 

Like  the  passing  of  a  garment; 

When  the  massive  oak-trees  whispered 

In  soft  music  through  the  solemn 

Dimness  of  the  noble  landscape; 

Through  the  pathways  of  the  Forest, 

Silent  as  the  stars  above  him, 

Came  the  prophet,  Waukanoga, 

He,  the  seer  of  all  his  people; 

And  behind  him,  dark  and  noiseless, 

Followed  bands  of  stern-faced  warriors. 

Scarce  you  would  have  known  their  coming, 

Had  you  stood  beside  the  pathway, 


THE  PROPHETS  APPEAL. 

And  the  rabbit  might  have  listened, 
All  in  vain,  to  catch  the  footfall 
Of  the  warriors  in  the  darkness. 

Through  the  woodland's  hollow  silence 
Passed  the  prophet,  like  a  shadow, 
Like  a  stealthy  phantom  gliding 
Through  the  depths  of  utter  stillness, 
Utter  gloom,  and  only  broken 
By  the  murmur  of  the  West- Wind, 
And  a  struggling  thread  of  moonlight. 

On  the  borders  of  the  Forest 
Paused  the  seer,  and  looking  Westward, 
Saw  the  Moon,  the  Queen  of  Darkness, 
Rising  in  the  paths  of  Midnight; 
Saw  the  shimmering  starlight  falling, 
Like  a  tender  benediction, 
On  the  bosom  of  the  prairie; 
Saw  the  circling  hosts  of  Nature 
Glitt'ring  in  the  blue  profoundness. 

Then  his  heart  was  moved  with  passion, 
And  his  mind  was  stirred  with  visions; 


THE  PROPHETS  APPEAL. 

For  the  vast  abyss  of  Nature 
Lifted  up  his  soul  to  greatness, 
Caused  his  mind  to  gather  fullness, 
And  his  tongue  to  utter  wisdom. 

O 

By  his  side  the  awe-struck  warriors 
Marked  the  gath'ring  inspiration, 
Marked  the  fire  that  lit  his  visage, 
SawT  his  passion  and  his  longing 
For  the  infinite  of  Nature. 
By  his  side  they  stood  and  waited, 
More  like  statues  than  like  humans, 
For  the  bursting  of  the  thunder 
From  the  lips  of  the  old  prophet. 

"  Oh,  my  brothers,"  spoke  the  prophet, 
"  Oh,  my  warriors,  oaken-hearted, 
Men  in  peace  and  men  in  battle, 
Strong  to  brave  the  toils  of  ambush, 
Shaped  for  great  and  long  endurance; 
It  is  not  through  secret  ambush, 
Nor  the  hardihood  of  valor. 
Nor  the  strength  of  burning  torture, 
That  the  Earth  shall  be  made  purer. 


THE  PROPHETS  APPEAL. 

It  is  not  through  warring  counsels, 
It  is  not  through  deeds  of  bloodshed, 
*Nor  in  acts  of  direful  vengeance, 
That  the  Earth  shall  be  made  fairer. 
It  is  not  through  war  unceasing, 
Bitter,  vengeful,  full  of  evil, 
That  men's  hearts  shall  grow  to  fullness. 

"  Do  ye  love  the  voiceful  forests? 
Hear  them  whisper,  low  and  solemn, 
4  Peace  be  with  you,  oh,  my  brothers!  ' 
Do  ye  love  the  cooling  West- Wind? 
Hear  it  sighing  through  the  branches, 
'  Peace  be  with  you,  oh,  my  brothers!  ' 
Do  ye  love  great  Nature's  children? 
Love  the  voices  of  the  forest  ? 
Ye  can  hear  them,  singing,  throbbing. 
Till  their  songs  are  full  of  meaning, 
'  Peace  be  with  you,  oh,  my  brothers!  ' 
Do  ye  love  the  mighty  rivers. 
Leaping  o'er  your  precipices, 
Like  a  bounding  deer,  exultant, 
Flowing  smoothly  through  your  valleys, 
Greenly  clad  and  girt  with  flowers, 


THE  PROPHETS  APPEAL. 

Mirroring  the  face  of  Heaven, 
In  the  starry  hours  of  Midnight; 
Glowing  crimson  in  the  sunset, 
When  the  fiery  track  of  Daylight 
Hides  the  Sun  in  flaming  glory? 
Ye  can  hear  their  wavelets  rippling 
Softly  through  the  quiet  valleys; 
Hear  them  thunder  in  the  chasms, 
'  Peace  be  with  you,  oh,  my  brothers! 

"  Thus  the  myriad  tongues  of  Nature 
Speak  of  peace  and  of  forgiveness, 
Speak  of  brotherhood  and  manhood, 
And  the  nobleness  of  friendship. 

"  From  the  grandest  seat  of  Nature 
Manito  the  mighty  speaketh, 
He,  the  Maker  and  the  Father: 
'  Peace  be  with  you,  oh,  my  children! 
Take  the  gifts  that  nature  gives  you, 
All  her  boundless  wealth  of  harvests; 
Follow  not  the  paths  of  hatred, 
Hearken  not  to  old  traditions 
Of  another  generation, 


THE  PEOPHETS  APPEAL. 

And  the  wrongs  your  fathers  suffered. 
For  the  earth  must  needs  grow  better; 
Men  must  live  and  grow  together, 
Loving,  bearing  with  each  other, 
Till  the  destiny  of  mortals 
Reaches  to  a  full  completion.  ' 

"  Will  ye  stand  upon  the  margin 
Of  the  terrible  eternal 
With  the  blood  of  men  upon  you? 
Will  ye  grovel  in  the  shallow 
Mire  of  hate  and  vengeful  passion, 
While  the  white,  grand  heart  of  Nature 
Breathes  its  love  and  peace  around  you? 
Ye,  whose  souls  should  be  made  nobler 
By  the  pureness  of  her  presence; 
Ye,  whose  brows  should  be  uplifted 
Equal  unto  hers  in  stature, 
Will  ye  be  the  darkest  shadow 
In  the  sunlight  of  her  being?  " 

Ceased  the  prophet,  and  the  warriors 
Stood  like  statues  carved  in  darkness. 
Staring  out  into  the  moonlight; 
Stood  like  monuments  of  silence, 
At  the  doorway  of  the  forest. 


THE  PRAIRIE  FIRE. 

A  lithe  form  rested  on  its  bended  knee 
In  the  wind-shaken  grass,  that,  like  a  sea, 
Surged  in  long  undulations,  far  and  near, 
A  waving  ocean,  brown  and  dead  and  sere. 
The  shadows  filled  the  air,  and,  far  away, 
A  line  of  fire  on  the  horizon  lay. 
With  silent  awe  I  watched  the  pliant  grass 
Yield,  that  the  footsteps  of  the  wind  might  pass: 
Then  turned  my  eyes  toward  the  stooping  form 
That  held  the  germ  of  a  terrific  storm. 
I  saw  the  sparkle  of  a  tiny  light 
Break  out  against  the  shadowy  face  of  night; 
The  ready  grass  caught  up  the  struggling  flame, 
A  warning  sound,  as  bursting  billows,  came; 
The  air  grew  hot,  and  with  a  crackling  roar, 
Like  breakers  hurled  upon  a  rocky  shore, 
The  fire  rushed  on,  a  broad  and  glowing  sheet, 
And  left  a  blackened  ruin  at  my  feet  ! 

8 


THE  PRAIRIE  FIRE. 

As  some  fierce,  baleful  fiend,  the  burning  mass 

Reached  out  hot  arms  to  seize  the  trembling  grass, 

That  withered  in  its  suffocating  breath, 

And  flung  black  cinders  in  the  air  of  death. 

Toward  the  lighted  sky  the  dragon  flung 

The  curling  points  of  many  a  blood-red  tongue, 

And  sweeping  on  in  wild,  tumultuous  wrath 

It  left  behind  a  smoky,  lurid  path  ! 

Ah,  could  the  almost  winged  Arabian  steed 

Lead  that  tornado  in  its  fiery  speed  ? 

Could  human  power,  pursued  by  such  a  foe, 

Escape  that  seething  furnace's  scorching  glow  ? 

Doubtful,  methinks,  were  such  a  fearful  race, 

Where  Nature's  maddest  demon  holds  the  chase  ! 

For,  with  relentless,  savage  fury,  sweep 

The  waves  of  fire  through  grassy  oceans  deep; 

And,  as  the  gale  sweeps  chaff  from  winnowed  grain, 

Vanish  the  grasses  on  the  fire-swept  plain. 

Now  fainter  grows  the  roar,  until  it  seems 

But  the  deep  murmuring  of  distant  streams; 

The  leaping  brightness  hastens  from  my  sight, 

And  leaves  to  me  the  fitful  gleams  of  light, 

That,  here  and  there,  leap  up  with  pleasant  sound, 

And  cast  a  glimmer  on  the  air  around  ! 


10  THE  PRAIRIE  FIRE. 

Like  a  burnt  city  seemed  the  blazing  plain 

Against  the  sky  that  frowned  with  threats  of  rain, 

As,  with  reluctant  heart,  I  turned  my  feet 

To  seek  the  far  off  city's  grassless  street, 

Averse  to  leave  the  large,  mysterious  stage 

Where  Nature  doth  enact  her  scenes  from  agfe  to  age. 

o  o 


BY  THE  RIVER  IN  WINTER. 

The  river  flows  through  gray,  dismantled  woods 
That  seem  like  ruined  halls,  whose  pillars  stand 
Unroofed,  sad  tokens  of  the  past,  strewn  'round 
With  broken  cornices  and  sculptured  leaves 
And  rifted  heaps  of  marble,  which  the  sun 
Sprinkles  with  diamonds;  there  the  argent  moon 
At  midnight  makes  the  frosty  branches  gleam 
With  the  sparkling  sheen,  and  the   small-seeming  stars 
Unite  with  her  their  distant  rays  to  make 
A  ghostly  splendor  in  the  lonely  wood. 
The  mournful  winds  breathe  a  perpetual  sigh 
Through  all  its  desolate  chambers,  and  the  trees 
Sob  with  low  voices  through  the  feeble  light, 
As  though  they  mourned  the  year's  voluptuous  prime, 
When  every  skeleton  limb  was  richlv  draped 
In  Summer's  green,  luxurious  foliage, 
And  the  high  arches  of  the  drooping  vine 
Hung  o'er  the  river's  warm  and  open  tide. 

11 


12  BY  THE  EIVEE  IN  WIN  TEE. 

No  more  we  hear  thy  thundering  monotone 

Call  through  the  land  from  morning  till  the  night, 

And  from  the  night  till  morning;  thou  art  dumb, 

O  River,  and  thy  voice  is  hushed  to  us, 

But  murmurs  underneath  the  solid  ice — 

A  crystal  dungeon — as  a  prisoner  sings, 

Hoping  deliv'rance.      Thy  companions  all — 

The  cunning  beaver,  he  who  fells  the  trees 

Upon  thy  banks  to  build  his  winter  home; 

The  mink,  the  otter  and  the  muskrat — prowl 

Beneath  thy  frozen  breast.     The  rabbit's  track 

Imprints  the  crackling  snow,  as  with  swift  feet 

He  flies  along  the  forest's  marble  floor 

And  threads  the  labyrinth  of  the  hazel-brush, 

Like  some  white  ghost  that  haunts  a  ruined  home. 

The  merciless  winds  scourge  the  unsheltered  plain 
With  howling  blasts,  whose  maniacal  shrieks 
And  sobs  and  whispers  drive  the  shivering  soul 
To  the  congenial  welcome  of  the  hearth 

O 

To  dream  of  spring.     Yet  Winter,  too,  is  fair, 
For  soon  his  madness  wanes,  and  leaves  to  us 
The  dazzling  snow,  the  radiant  atmosphere, 
An  amethystine  sea,  wherein  is  felt 


BY  THE  EIVEE  IX   WINTER.  IS 

Reviving  health,  that  makes  the  pulse  of  life 
Beat  with  new  ardor.     I  remember  me 
Of  winter  suns  that  made  the  level  ice 
Glitter  with  brilliant  prisms,  as  our  feet, 
Steel-clad  and  restless,  spurned  the  slipp'ry  floor 
With  curving  stroke.     A  million  diamonds  burst 
From  bending  willows,  as  our  ringers  touched 
Their  laden  branches,  and  the  hazel-brush 
Let  fall  a  silver  spray  that  scattered  o'er 
The  shining  ice.     The  woods  were  crystalline, 
For  every  withered  leaf  and  fern  and  blade, 
And  every  twig  and  branch  and  rugged  bough 
Was  laced  with  frost  and  set  around  with  gems 
That  took  all  colors  from  the  shifting  light. 

'Twas  Winter  in  his  mildest,  happiest  mood, 
Who  sat  with  awe  in  those  transfigured  aisles 
Of  Nature's  solemn  temple,  hung  around 
With  jeweled  folds  of  samite  drapery! 
Nor  spring  nor  summer  nor  the  autumn's  flush 
Could  equal  this!      No  languid  loveliness 
That  with  soft  luxury  invites  to  sloth 
The  easy  flesh  and  the  enchanted  mind, 
But  fresh,  inspiring  beauty,  such  as  sends 


14  BY  THE  RIVER  IN    WINTER. 

The  leaping  blood  exultant  on  its  course 
With  fervid  rapture,  and  that  fills  the  mind 
With  high  enthusiasm  of  noble  thoughts 
And  a  diviner  yearning.     He  who  stands 
In  Nature's  presence,  while  her  lustrous  eyes 
Smile  in  his  own,  and  feels  no  passion-thrill 
Stir  in  the  sluggish  recess  of  his  breast, 
He  is  not  worthy  of  the  stamp  she  set 
On  his  degraded  forehead. — Bow  thy  head, 
And  breathe  amid  this  sinless  solitude 
One  honest  prayer  to  purify  thy  creed, 
And  shed  a  benediction  o'er  thy  life! 


THE   PLOUGH. 

Thou  uncouth  sceptre  of  the  clown, 

The  finger  of  a  just  renown 

Shall  write  more  honest  glory  down 

Upon  thy  share 
Than  glitters  on  the  costliest  crown 

That  monarchs  wear. 

There's  blood  upon  the  purest  stone 
Whose  dazzling  lustre  ever  shone 
Above  the  grandeur  of  the  throne, 

But  thou  hast  stood 
Upon  the  kingly  right  alone 

Of  doing  good. 

The  world — the  world — is  in  thy  train! 
Thine  empire  is  the  fruitful  plain, 
Thine  armies,  stately  hosts  of  grain, 
15 


16  THE  PLOUGH. 

That  soon  will  rise 
Magnificent  o'er  thy  domain, 
'Neath  summer  skies. 

Methinks  that  many  millions  wait 
For  thee  to  ope  the  golden  gate 
Where  nature,  opulently  great, 

Dispenses  free 
The  largess  of  her  broad  estate 

From  sea  to  sea. 

What  though  the  snow-hung  forests  weep 
With  icy  tears  that  melt  and  creep 
Athwart  their  dreary  winter  sleep 

In  chilly  rain, 
And  pallid  silence,  cold  and  deep, 

Wraps  hill  and  plain — 

The  angel  Resurrection  broods 

Above  the  lifeless  solitudes, 

And  spite  of  winter's  angry  moods, 

Still  smiling  dreams 
Of  emerald  prairies,  billowy  woods 

And  dashing  streams. 


THE  PLOUGH.  17 

The  vital,  spiritual  power 

Whose  gracious  mission  is  to  showe^ 

On  mountain  pine  and  timid  flower 

A  lovely  birth 
Reserves  for  thee  the  richest  dower 

She  has  on  earth. 

God  made  a  beauty  even  in  toil, 
A  music  in  the  vear's  turmoil, 
A  splendor  in  the  harvest's  spoil, 

And,  let  us  feel, 
He  stamps  upon  the  very  soil 

His  awful  seal. 

So  thou  whose  lot  is  cast  to  plod 

Along  the  furrows  ot  the  sod, 

Mayst  feel  the  pathway  thou  hast  trod 

A  royal  one, 
And  that  all  labor  true  to  God 

Xo  man  need  shun. 


THANKSGIVING. 

The  sheaves  lie  thick  on  Autumn's  field, 

And  shine  like  heaps  of  scattered  gold — 
The  wealth  that  Nature  first  revealed 
To  toiling  man  of  old. 

The  rising  sun,  with  flashing  blade, 

Has  reaped  his  fading  plains  on  high, 
And  on  fair  Morning's  altar  laid 
The  harvest  of  the  sky. 

The  clouds  are  fringed  with  brilliant   dyes, 

The  clew  lies  glistening  in  the  sun, 
The  boundaries  of  the  earth  and  skies 
With  light  seem  overrun. 

The  rapturous  carols  of  the  morn 

That  fill  the  healthful  atmosphere, 
The  rustle  of  the  stately  corn 

Nodding  and  beckoning  near — 
18 


THANKSGIVING. 

The  melody  and  loveliness 

Of  Autumn's  gay,  prophetic  prime — 
All  these  have  left  their  fresh  impress, 
A  dream  for  winter-time  ! 

I  wonder  if  yon  rugged  clown, 

Who  dozes  by  his  blazing  hearthr 
Dreams  of  the  Autumn's  ripened  prime, 
And  thanks  the  generous  earth, 

I  wonder  if  the  sounds  he  heard 

All  day  among  his  falling  sheaves — 
The  cooling  breeze,  the  song  of  bird, 
The  murmur  of  the  leaves  ; 

I  wonder  if  the  strange  romance 

Of  Nature — every  stalk  she  rears-— 
The  hidden  wheel  of  circumstance 

That  moves  the  fruitful  years, 

E'er  drew  him,  in  some  happy  hour, 

To  see  a  greater  good  than  gain 
In  all  the  gifts  that  God  doth  shower 
On  Nature's  rich  domain. 


THANKSGIVING. 

Or  thinks  he,  when  his  fastened  bands 

Fall  down  amongst  the  prostrate  grain. 
How  oft  the  work  of  human  hands 
Is  done  by  power  of  brain? 

And  how  the  progress  of  the  mind, 

The  triumph  of  inventive  skill, 
Leaves  labor's  heavy  cares  behind, 
And  wanders  where  it  will. 


The  storm  that  sweeps  around  thy  door 

And  shrieks  in  varied,  sudden  blast, 
Is  weak  to  that  thy  fathers  bore 
To  build  an  honest  Past. 

The  great  achievements  of  their  race, 

The  fruit  of  energy  divine, 
The  height  of  Power's  commanding  place- 
Their  treasures  all  are  thine. 

Thank  God  for  their  recorded  days, 

Though  ours  are  blotted  o'er  with  crime, 

O 

And  add  thy  tribute  to  their  praise 

Who  wrought  for  future  time. 


777  A'  STABS. 

Wear  thou  the  crown  they  ever  wore, 

Virtue  and  love — perhaps  austere, 
But  brighter,  like  their  burnished  floor, 
Because  'twas  held  so  dear. 


THE  STARS. 

How  tranquilly  the  legions  of  the  stars, 

On  Heaven's  blue  slopes  assembled  far  and  near, 
Gaze  on  the  face  of  this  unquiet  sphere, 

Whose  lab'ring  breast,  still  chafed  by  ancient  scars, 

Sighs  with  the  pain  of  Man's  perpetual  wars  ! 
How  softly  brilliant,  how  serenely  clear, 
They  meet  the  eyes  whose  vision  falters  here — 

Their  steadfast  smile  no  gloom,  no  shadow  mars  ! 

Oh,  could  the  earth  send  back  as  pure  a  ray 

To  greet  yon  hosts  that  throng  the  plains  of  night  ! 

But  she  sweeps  onward  o'er  her  dusky  way, 

Like  some  lost  wanderer,  banished   from  the  light, 

Who  sees,  where'er  her  farthest  footsteps  stray, 
Celestial  faces  shine  from  height  to  height. 


COURAGE  IN  DEATH. 

Pity  that  man  who  struggles  with  his  fate, 

For  he  has  lost  the  ennobling  hopes  that  spring 

From  resignation's  patient  suffering — 
That  mood  which  renders  greatness  doubly  great, 
Exalts  humility  to  high  estate, 

And  mingles  with  the  cup  life's  fortunes  bring 

The  antidote  which  deadens  all  its  sting, 
And  turns  to  sweetness  even  the  dregs  of  hate. 
Pity  the  wretch  !    for  he's  indeed  alone 

Whose    courage    leaves    him    crouched    with    abject 

head, 
While  mocking  death  cuts  short  the  trembling  moan 

With  the  cold  poison  of  despair  and  dread, 
And  spurns  the  clod  he  well  may  call  his  own, 

Since  its  best  portion  was  already  dead. 


A  WINTER  TWILIGHT, 

The  world's  in  its  shroud,  and  the  gray  forests  stand 
Like  white-bearded  mourners,  all  tremblingly  sighing, 
And  the  moan  of  the  wind,  like  a  wail  for  the  dying, 

Sweeps  out  on  the  breath  of  the  snow-mantled  land. 

The  twilight  is  chilly  and  ghostly  and  drear, 
Like  a  visible  presence  of  desolate  sadness 
That  broods  where  of  late  sang  the  spirit  of  gladness, 

And  summer's  rich  crown  decked  the  brow  of  the  year. 

Like  a  palace  deserted  and  stripped  of  its  pride, 

Its  hearthstone  disdained  by  the  foot  of  the  stranger, 
While  the  hearts  that  once  loved  it  in  peace  and  in 
danger 

From  their  birthplace  are  scattered  by  time  or  by  tide, — 

So  the  bleak  forests  seem,  of  their  glory  laid  bare; 
Their  children  have  vanished,  their  singers  departed, 
The  voices  that  once  were  so  sweet  and  ligfht-hearted 

O 

Have  left  not  an  echo  to  soften  the  air. 


24  A    WINTER  TWILIGHT. 

Every  twig,  as  it  crackles  and  breaks  'neatlrmy  tread, 
Seems  to  mock  retrospection  and  sharply  awaken 
Thoughts  akin  to  a  scene  so  despoiled  and  forsaken, 

And  to  startle  old  voices  that  speak  of  the  dead. 

But  yet,  oh,  ye  forests,  your  sorrow  is  brief: 

There's  a  season  for  laughter  as  \vell  as  for  weeping; 
Your    children    will    rise    from    the    graves    where 
they're  sleeping, 

And  your  singers  return  with  the  bud  of  the  leaf. 

The  shadow  of  death  whose  dark  presence  is  blent 
With  the  gloom  of  the  evening's  indefinite  spaces 
Is  the  angel  of  mercy  whose  pity  embraces 

All  life  that  by  Heaven  for  man's  pleasure  was  sent. 

The  angel  of  life  lays  her  head  on  his  breast, 

To  sleep  for  a  time,  and  the  flowers  in  her  tresses 
Are  withered  and  crushed  by  the  hand  that  caresses 

The  beautiful  sleeper,  serenely  at  rest. 

But  oh,  when  she  rises  in  lovely  array, 

Our  hearts  will  forget  that  she  ever  grew  weary 
And  sank  to  her  rest  in  a  refuge  so  dreary 

To  wait  for  the  dawn  of  the  happier  day  ! 


AFTER  A    SUNSET. 

Thus  sinks  the  life  of  Genius  to  its  end — 
A  moment  blazoned  on  the  sky  of  time 
In  hues  of  splendor  transiently  sublime, 

Where  all  the  colors  truth  and  fancy  lend 

In  a  divine  transfiguration  blend; 

The  morning's  glow,  the  noon's  effulgent  prime, 
And  the  bright  evening  of  a  genial  clime, 

Merged  in  one  glory,  like  a  dream  descend. 

But  memory's  orb,  like  that  undazzling  sphere 
Which  hallows  night  with  pure,  reflected  rays, 

Sheds  on  the  name  of  him  whom  we  revere 
The  tempered  light  of  more  discerning  praise, 

And  breathes  a  solemn,  holy  atmosphere 
About  the  silence  of  our  loneliest  ways. 


THE  OLD  YEAR. 

A  form  sits  musing  in  the  dark, 
Watching  the  fire's  exultant  spark, 
And  hearing  in  its  murmuring  glow 
The  voices  of  the  lonof-asro. 

-r»         £> 

The  record  of  departed  days 
Is  flashing  from  the  genial  blaze; 
The  shadows  of  remembered  names 
Flit  through  the  rosy  bed  of  flames. 

E'en  now,  perhaps,  their  distant  souls 

Are  dreaming  in  the  living  coals, 

Whose  sympathetic  power  extends 

The  chord  of  thought  'twixt  parted  friends- 

The  chord  of  love,  whereon  we  play 
The  measures  of  another  day, 


THE  OLD   YEAR.  27 

Half-fearing,  lest  the  mournful  song 
Should  bear  some  note  of  sin  and  wrong. 

Who,  though  immersed  in  crime  and  folly, 
Could  e'er  resist  such  melancholy  ? 
The  touch  of  time's  retreating  wings 
Will  rouse  his  soul  to  better  things  ! 

The  music  of  the  welcoming  spheres 
That  ushers  in  the  hastening  years, 
Sings  hope  to  him  who  claims  his  throne. 
But  grief  to  him  who  leaves  his  own. 

The  year  is  going  !  oh.  my  friend, 
May  thy  years  have  a  joyous  end. 
But  one  regret  will  tinge  them  all — 
Their  evil  none  can  e'er  recall. 


ONE  SONG  MORE. 

One  song  more,  dear  lady, 

One  song  more,  I  pray; 
For  you  fill  my  soul  with  echoes 

That  never  will  die  away. 

On  his  western  couch  of  roses 

The  pale  day  slowly  dies, 
And  the  valleys  are  misty  with  sunlight 

That  shines  from  his  fading  eyes. 


Sing  me  a  song  for  his  dying, 

And  a  song  for  the  mourning  night, 

Who  casts  the  pall  of  her  shadows 
Over  his  eyes  of  light. 


Sing  me  a  song  for  the  twilight, 
The  twilight  grand  and  dim, 

Who  croons  to  the  dreamy  landscape 
Creation's  vesper  hymn. 
28 


OXK  SOXG  MO  HE. 

The  stars  encircle  his  forehead, 

And  beneath  him  the  gray  world  rolls 

With  its  discord  of  weeping  and  laughter, 
The  burdens  of  restless  souls. 

And  the  wings  of  my  thoughts  rush  o'er  me 
Like  the  passage  of  homeward  birds, 

And  a  passion  too  deep  for  music 
Or  the  rhythm  of  measured  words 

Throbs  in  my  brain  like  the  heart-beat 

Of  a  spirit  so  eager  and  strong 
I  would  drown  the  thirst  of  my  yearning 

In  the  nectar  that  fills  your  song. 

Then  sing  me  another  measure, 

The  rare,  sweet  voice  I  crave 
Might  call  a  soul  from  the  darkness 

That  reaches  beyond  the  grave. 

'Tis  not  the  touch  of  your  fingers, 

Wand'ring  from  key  to  key, 
Nor  the  flow  of  your  silken  tresses 

That  weakens  this  thought  in  me. 


30  ONE  SONG  MORE. 

'Tis  not  the  fashion  of  nature 
That  lives  in  figure  or  face — 

For  that  is  gross  in  its  beauty, 
But  this  is  divine  in  its  grace. 

Oh,  is  it  you  that  are  singing, 

Or  some  seraph  that  stealeth  down 

With  a  song  from  the  fields  of  Heaven, 
Veiled  in  a  mantle  of  brown  ? 

Or  is  it  your  spirit  immortal 

That  flutters  its  wings  in  your  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  pours  from  its  prison 

The  song  of  its  own  unrest  ? 

Ah,  the  bird  is  free  from  its  thralldom, 
And  bursts  away  on  its  flight 

And  the  throb  of  its  pinions  exultant 
Floats  back  on  the  listening  night. 

Nearer  the  gates  of  Heaven  ! — 

o 

Across  the  gulfs  of  the  dark 
The  music  grows  fainter  and  sweeter, 
Like  the  voice  of  a  mounting  lark, 


ONE  SONG  MORE.  31 

When  we  stand  and  listen  and  wonder 

That  so  feeble  an  animate  clod 
Can  voice  such  a  rapture  of  passion 

So  near  to  the  glory  of  God. 

Nearer  the  gates  of  Heaven  ! — 

Nearer — to  fail  ere  long, 
And  sink  down  the  spaces  of  twilight 

On  the  tremulous  chords  of  the  song. 

Weary,  but  tender  and  plaintive, 
It  falters  with  outstretched  winsfs, 

O      " 

Then  nestles  down  into  silence 

From  its  Heavenward  wanderings. 

The  bird  is  hushed  into  stillness, 

But  the  seraph  still  sits  in  the  gloom, 

Dreaming,  perhaps,  that  Heaven 
Will  shine  through  the  quiet  room. 

And,  lo,  the  weird  sheen  of  the  moonlight 

Creeps  through  the  guardian  trees, 
And  drops  its  mysterious  fingers, 

Like  a  blessing,  upon  the  keys. 


SOLITUDE. 

The  dews  lie  couched  among  the   prairie  flowers, 

The  wind  is  soft  and  gentle  in  its  mood. 

Let  us  go  forth;  this  balmy  solitude, 
Crowned  with  the  halo  of  the  twilight  hours, 
Doth  seem  to  stretch  its  dusky  arms  to  us 

With  a  mute  passion  on  its  shadowy  face. 

There  are  no  memories  here,  of  time  or  place, 
To  mar  our  contemplation;  it  is  thus 
That  Nature  hallowed  the  barbarian  past, 
And  thus  her  presence  awes  us  to  the  last. 

Save  where  the  pheasant,  startled  from  its  nest, 

Whirs  through  the  air,  and  fades  against  the  sky, 
Or  some  wild  loon  upon  the  water's  breast 

Utters  its  strange  and  melancholy  cry, 
There   is   no  sound.     The  stars  themselves  do  seem 
Intense  with  silence;  there's  some  spirit  here 
32 


SOLITUDE. 

That  doth  oppress  the  fancy  like  a  dream  — 
A  fancied  music,  heard  and  yet  not  heard  — 
Or  like  sad  eyes,  that  speak  without  a  word. 

Methinks  there  is  an  eloquence  unborn, 

Music  divine,  and  thoughts  to  stir  mankind, 
That  haunt  these  wilds,  but  at  the  touch  of  morn 

They  flee  away,  like  shadows,  from  the  mind. 
Oh,  here  Imagination  has  her  throne, 

Circled  by  stars;  her  glorious  eyes  diffuse 
Mysterious  thoughts  that  turn  us  from  our  own, 

And  bid  us  pause  to  wonder  and  to  muse. 
We  do  not  know  the  power  that  we  revere, 
But  worship  blindly,  feeling  that  Heaven  is  near. 

Dost  thou  love  nature  ?     '  Tis  her  hour  of  prayer. 

From  every  recess  underneath  the  dome 
Some  breath  steals  upward  through  the  solemn  air, 

Freighted  with  worship,  till  it  finds  a  home. 
The  very  grass  that  stirs  beneath  our  feet 

Doth  struggle  upward  to  the  feet  of  God, 
And   every  flower  that  makes  our  pathway  sweet 

Doth  voice  a  prayer  of  nature  from  the  sod. 
The  zephyr  chants;  the  forest's  distant  sigh 
Gives  back  the  whisper  of    its   awed   reply. 


34  SOLITUDE. 

Would  it  seem  strange  if   this  abyss  profound, 

Yon  orbs  of  glory  and  this  slumbering  sphere, 
Should  swell  the  stress  of   spiritual  sound 

Across  the  gulfs  of  silence  to  our  ear? 
No,  'twere  not  strange;  the  stillness  is  so  deep 

That  it  cloth  seem  as  if  an  angel  bent 
To  hearken  the  divine  command  to  sweep 

The  chords  of  nature's  mighty  instrument, 
And  wake  the  throb  of  those  majestic  bars 
That  beat  the  rhythm  of   the    morning  stars. 

Sometimes  methinks  the  seraph's  fingers  sway 

The  powerful  chords;  celestial  measures  flow 
From  star  to  star,  and,  ere  they  die  away, 

An  echo  wanders  to  our  star  below. 
Such  are  these  yearnings  —  this  undying  sense 

Of  the  Immortal  —  echoes  of  the  song 
That  angels  sing  before  Omnipotence, 

And,  true  as  Heaven,  they  never  lead  us  wrong. 
'Tis  we  ourselves  that  lead  ourselves  astray, 
While  conscience  looks  to  God  and  points  the  way 


THE  WIND'S  SONG. 

The  wind   is  blowing  across  the  wheatr 

That  bows  with  an  endless  sigh; 
Like  the  rush  of  a  thousand  unseen  feet 
The  winged  air  hurries  by, 

And  it  bears  a  song 
That  is  low  and  long  — 
"All  things  must  perish  beneath  the  sky." 

'Tis  the  same  old  soil,  and  the  selfsame  plough 

A  O         V 

But  the  harvest  is  not  the  same; 
The  field  will   be  shorn  that  is  glorious  now 
With   splendor  the    reaper  must  claim; 
The  seed  and  its  crown 
Must  all  go  down 
To  the  fruitful  darkness  from  which  they  came. 

Down  to  the  earth,  where  the  reaper  is  laid, 
With  his  scythe  deep  buried  in  rust; 
86 


THE  WIND'S  SONG. 

Where  human  harvests  have  long  decayed 
And  nations  are  mingled  in  dust; 

Where  Time  bestows 

His  blisses  and  woes, 
In  the  hands  of  Death — for  Death  is  just. 

'c  Seed  and  harvest — harvest  and  seed  " — 

This  was  the  chord  of  the  song  — 
"  The  grain  must  fall  with  the  choking  weed, 
The  weak  descend  with  the  strong  ! 
For  he  who  reaps 
Neither  slumbers  nor  sleeps, 
.And  the  time  ere  the  harvest  is  never  long." 


THE  LOON. 

When  the  shadows  encompass  the  lake 

And  the  light  of  the  drifting  moon 
Shines  clown  through  the  clouds  as  they,  break 
On  the  topmost  summit  of  noon, 
Then  I  hear  the  cry  of  the  loon  — 
A  wild  monotonous  cry, 
Floating  up  to  the  sky, 
Where  the  broken  moonbeams  glow 
O'er  the  cavernous  rifts  of  the  clouds, 
Like  ghosts  that  arise  in  their  shrouds, 
And  gaze  on  the  dark  below. 

Afar  on  the  wrinkled  breast 

Of  the  tossing  and  dark  expanse 

The  loon  is  lying  at  rest, 

While  the  waters  around  him  dance., 
And  he  rocks  with  an  eagle  glance 
Swift  as  the  rifle's   crack 


38  THE  LOOS. 

That  speeds  the  ball  on  its  track. 
Against  the  glimmering  white 

Of  the  waves  as  they  rise  and  fall, 

Dimly  —  and  that  is  all  — 
His  proud  form  breaks  on  my  sight. 

But  his  mournful  and  long  halloo, 
That  startles  the  sheltering  dark, 
Bethinks  me  of  one  whom  I  knew 
Who  bore  Cain's  murderous  mark. 
Long  years  ago  he  returned 
To  the  home  where  his  hearth-fires  burned, 
A  fugitive  branded  with  crime; 

And  he  prayed  by  these  waters  for  peace, 
And  sought  by  their  stillness  release 
From  the  pitiless  mockings  of  Time  ! 

But  ever  the  cry  of  the  loon 

Rang  strange  and  mad  in  his  ears 
Like  a  curse  on  his  prayer-sought  boon, 
Like  a  wailing  out  of  the  years  ! 
And  when  the  angry  spheres 

Were  hid  from  his  fevered  view, 
The  loon's  unearthly  halloo, 


THE  LOON.  39 

Like  the  cry  of  one  calling  in  vain, 

Smote  on  his  soul  like  lead, 

And  brought  to  his  sleepless  bed 
Old  spectres  to  madden  his  brain. 

So,  maddening  slowly,  he  walked 

With  a  tottering  tread  on  the  shore, 
And  ever  beside  him  stalked 
The  ghosts  of  the  years  before, 
While  the  loon's  wild  chorus  bore 
The  awful  burden  of  crime, 
A  sad  funereal  chime, 
To  the  hoarse  lament  of  remorse; 
And  there,  on  a  sunny  day, 
Where  in  boyhood  he  loved  to  play, 
They  found  him,  a  dripping  corse  ! 


THE   PLOUGHMAN. 

The  plough  is  sheathed  in  the  cloven  sod 

At  the  edge  of  an  upheaved  sea  of  loam ; 
The  prairie  sleeps  with  a  languid  nod, 

The  wild  fowl  call  from  their  journey  home; 
And,  sinking  slow 
To  the  fields  below, 
They  stalk  like  sentinels  to  and  fro. 

But  the  ploughman  bends  to  his  violin 

On  the  threshold  grass  at  his  moonlit  door, 
While  the  spirit,  music,  flits  out  and  in, 
As  the  master  wand  glides  softly  o'er 
The  fragile  cell 
Where  she  comes  to  dwell 
At  the  talisman  touch  she  knows  so  well. 

The  partridge  slips  through  the  sheltering  grass, 
And  stealthily  lifts  its  neck  to  hear; 

40 


THE  PLOUGHMAN.  41 

The  bittern  stares  from  the  rank  morass, 
And  the  hare  leaps  up  with  a  wakeful  ear; 
The  wolf  looks  away 
From  the  scent  of  his  prey, 
And  listens  a  moment  as  if  at  bay. 

But  the  player  sits  in  the  humble  spot 

At  the  feet  of  the  silence  roofed  o'er  by  stars; 
The  night  is  lonely,  but  he  is  not, 

For  a  world  breathes  out  from  the  quivering  bars, 
And  every  sound 
Is  hallowed  and  crowned 
By  the  peopled  heart  of  the  bright  profound. 

Who  scorns  this  man  for  his  rugged  task  ? 

A  human  soul  is  a  monarch's  peer, 
And  vainly  power  might  stoop  to  ask 

For  the  peace  and  the  glory  that  mingle  here. 
Pleasure's  the  meed 
Of  an  honest  deed 
And  only  springs  from  its  natural  seed. 

When  the  sceptre  falls  from  the  monarch's  hand, 
And  the  ploughman  quits  his  rusting  share; 


42  THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

When  both  go  down  at  the  same  command, 
To  earth's  last  kingdom,  and  slumber  there, 

Then  we  may  know 

How  great  or  low 
Is  the  spirit  unmasked  of  mortal  show. 

Oh,  ploughman,  sitting  so  far  alone, 
Circled  by  endless  wilds  of  space, 
'Thy  bow  is  a  sceptre,  thy  seat  a  throne, 
And  thou  a  king  with  a  kingly  grace; 
For,  after  all, 
The  master  and  thrall 
Within  themselves  survive  or  fall. 


THE    WHITE  GRAVE. 

"  Fierce  howls  the  storm's  increasing  blast 
Along  the  frozen  plains  of  white; 

The  drifting  snow  is  whirled  and  cast 
Full  in  the  groaning  face  of  night. 

*l  Scarce  can  yon  glimmering  woods  be  seen 
Betwixt  the  columns  of  the  snow; 

Lone  wandering  here  when  woods  are  green, 
Your  reckless  feet  astray  might  go. 

•"  But  hard  it  is  for  men  to  bear 

The  scourge  of  Winter,  furious  king, 

And  feel  the  poniard  of  the  air 

Pierce  the  pale  flesh  with  quiv'ring  sting  !" 

He  turned — the  glow  was  on  his  cheek 
That  ripens  in  our  Northern  air  — 

•"I  do  not  fear  the  storm-wind's  shriek," 

He  laughed  to  those  who  warned  him  there. 
43 


44  THE   WHITE  GRAVE. 

He  plunged  into  the  outer   world, 

With  pleasant  fire-side  memories  warm;  — 

The  sheeted  snow  around  him  whirled 
The  ghostly  garments  of  the  storm  ! 

The  moon  let  fall  a  frozen  ray 

That  chilled  him  with  its  icy  breath, 

And  led  him  on   his  shifting  way 
To  meet  the  spectral  face  of  Death. 

The  merciless  winds  against  him  beat 

With  hollow  groans  and  shivering  sighs, 

Until  his  snow-bewildered  feet 

Seemed  driven  by  the  reeling  skies. 

And  then  he  felt  across  his  life 

A  sharp  and  bitter  anguish  come  — 
Like  the  slow  drawing  of  a  knife  — 

His  face  grew  white,  his  limbs  grew  numb  I 

He  turned  with  tottering  steps  to  seek 
The  shelter  of  a  roof  once  more  — 

But  the  hoarse  wind's  demoniac  shriek 
Laughed  him  to  scorn  with  fitful  roar. 


THE   WHITE  GEA  VE.  45 

Some  spirit  on  the  mad  wind  laughed 

Above  him  as  he  tottered  slow, 
Whose  hand   let  fall  a  stinging  shaft 

That  laid  the  trembling  wanderer  low. 

And  now  what  lethargy  of  sleep 

Through  all  his  helpless  being  went  ? 

What  dreamy  thoughts  would  o'er  him  creep, — 
What  far-off  memories  round  him  bent? 

What  shadowy  visions,  hopes   and  fears. 
Confused  his  deathly  slumber  then  ?  — 

What  broken  purposes  of  years, 
And  voices  of  his  fellow-men  ? 

We  know  not  — but  the  storm- wind  swept, 
With  mournful  whispers,  dull  and  low, 

And  heaped  above  him  where  he  slept 
A  marble  monument  of  snow. 

And  there,  when  Spring  had  calmed  the  sky, 
Around  him  tramrjed  the  wondering  herds, 

While  caroled  as  in  days  gone  by 
The  liquid  warblings  of  the  birds. 


THE  SCOURGE  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

A  voice  from  the  wasted  South  ! 
A  cry  from  destruction's  mouth  ! 
And  from  a  ghastly  drouth 

Of  human  existence. 
Sits  she  all  desolate, 
For,  from  Death's  yawning  gate, 
Rolled  the  simoon  of  fate, 

Mocking  resistance  ! 

Bright  smiled  Youth's  dancing  eye 
To  the  responsive  sky; 
Womanhood,  bending  nigh, 

Thrilled  him  with  passion  ! 
Manhood,  with  lofty  head, 
Age,  with  his  feeble  tread, 
Girlhood,  with  locks  wide  spread 

In  Nature's  sweet  fashion  — 
46 


THE  SCOURGE  OF  THE  SOUTH.  4T 

These  Death  regarded  not; 
Naught  was  a  holy  spot; 
Palace  nor  simple  cot 

Lured  him  to  pity  ! 
But,  with  exultant  yell, 
Straight  from  the  depths  of  hell, 
With  his  black  legions,  fell 

On  the  gay  city  ! 

He  had  no  mercy  then, 
But,  from  his  poisonous  fen, 
Breathed  his  hot  breath  on  men  — 

A  dread  exhalation  ! 
Not  the  wild  mother's  prayer, 
Moaned  in  her  crushed  despair, 
Moved  the  stern  fiend  forbear 

His  mad  desecration  ! 

Light  foot  and  dancing  eve, 
Lips  that  ne'er  breathed  a  sighr 
All  in  the  dust  they  lie, 
Doomed  without  warning  ! 
Weep  for  both  youth  and  age,. 
Weep  for  the  stricken  sage, 


THE  SCOURGE  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Weep,  for  Death  casts  the  gage, 
Hurls  it  with  scorning  ! 

Grim  on  Wealth's  perfumed  show, 
And  on  the  haunts  of  Woe, 
Frowned  the  impartial  foe, 

Frowned  with  harsh  laughter. 
"  Gemmed  hand  and  wrinkled  brow 
Ye  are  both  equal  now  ! 
In  my  still  halls  below 

Rest  ye  hereafter  !" 

Forth  from  the  pleasant  hearth, 
Down  to  the  cells  of  earth, 
Dear  love  and  manly  worth 

Went  wTith  blind  weeping. 
Over  the  threshold  stone 
W'ent  the  last  living  one 
Out  in  the  world  alone, 

Far  from  their  sleeping. 

"  Aid  !  oh,  my  brothers,  aid  !  " 
So -the  pale  Southland  prayed, 
"  Horror's  increasing  shade 


THE  SCOURGE  OF  THE  SOUTH.  49 

Broods  o'er  my  nation  ! 
Stretch  forth  your  hands,  I  pray. 
Bring  us  health's  balmy  ray, 
Drive  from  the  frightened  day 

Dark  desolation. 


"  Hear  ye  my  children  weep. 
As  the  night-watch  they  keep 
Where  demon-shadows  creep 

With  beck'ning  finger  ? 
Day  is  like  fearful  night 
Unto  their  darkened  sight, 
>S mitten  in  gloom  and  light  ! 

Death  will  not  linger." 


Hail  to  the  Northern  land  ! 

She  hath  stretched  forth  her  hand; 

She  the  divine  command 

Hears  not  unmoving. 
Smitten  with  foul  disease 
Her  noble  sons  she  sees! 
Little  Death  cared  for  these, 

Steadfast  and  loving. 


50  THE  SCOURGE  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Heroes  were  they  who  died 
By  the  doomed  wretch's  side, 
In  the  dim  halls  of  pride, 

Or  with  the  lowly. 
Greater  praise  none  can  crave 
Than  that  his  life  he  gave, 
Others  to  reach  and  save — 

Such  death  is  holv. 


ANGEL  OF  MERCY. 

TO  THE  MEN  AND  WOMEN  WHO   GAVE  THEMSELVES 
TO  SAVE  THE  YELLOW  FEVER  SUFFERERS. 

Oh,  Death,  thou  dread  and  stealthy  foe 
Of  all  the  hapless  human  race, 
What  heroes  sprang  to  thy  embrace 

In  hitter  wars  of  long  ago  ! 

What  martyrs  left  the  gliding  plow 
And  fell  beneath  thine  iron  touch  ! 
Oh,  earth  has  many  more  of  such 

To  hallow  life  with  glory  now  ! 

Not  they  alone  whose  cold  blades  runo- 

£*> 

Stern  chorus  to  their  martial  strains, 
Should  bear  the  palm  that  courage  gains, 
And  live  in  paans  fame  has  sung. 
51 


52  ANGEL   OF  MERCY. 

Reveal,  oh,  Death,  what  fearless  souls 
Have  braved  thee  in  the  Southern  land, 
And,  followed  by  thy  secret  hand, 

Have  trod  the  fever's  deadly  coals; 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  tomb 
What  faces  glow  with  halo  light  ! 
What  buds  that  terror  could  not  blight 

Have  burst  into  a  sudden  bloom  ! 

Oh,  saintly  women,  ye  who  bend 
Above  the  dying  sufferer's  bed, 
With  soothing  touch  and  silent  tread 

And  patience  steadfast  to  the  end, 

We  little,  know  what  lingering  trace 
Of  Heaven  this  sensual  world  conceals 
Till  dark  affliction's  hand  reveals 

The  kindred  feelings  of  the  race. 

Ye  teach  us,  what  \ve  oft  forget, 
That  sympathy's  electric  wnre 
Can  bear  the  heart's  magnetic  rire 

TV)  warm  the  blood  of  nations  yet. 


ANGEL   OF  MERCY.  53 

Though  we  are  only  dust  and  shade, 

Yet  there  is  still  a  spark  divine 

To  blossom  into  flame  and  shine 
Above  the  ruins  we  have  made  — 

A  light  to  show  us  what  we  are, 

And  what  our  brothers  are  to  us, 

And  give  a  sweeter  meaning  thus 
To  what  were  else  but  soulless  jar. 

Oh,  heroines  of  a  later  time, 

We,  knowing  what  your  hands  have  done, 

Would  lift  our  voices  up  as  one 
In  praise  of    what  we  hold  sublime. 

Oh,  braver  men  than  they  who  dip 
Their  swords  into  a  foeman's  blood, 
To  clasp  your  hands  in  brotherhood, 

Were  a  divine  companionship. 


SONNET  — A  GOOD  LIFE. 

As  one  who  seeks  a  hushed  and  pleasant  room, 
Weary  of  multitudinous  cares  that  fret 
To-morrow's  promise  with  to-day's  regret, 

And  feels  the  mingled   souls  of  flowers  in  bloom 

Comfort  his  senses  with  a  vague  perfume, 
So  in  the  chamber  of  a  life  where  yet 
Heaven's  beauty  glows  un withered,  we  forget 

The  outer  world's  severity  and  g4oom. 

Such  lives  are  types  of  Paradise;  we  see 
In  them  the  possibilities  of  earth, 

And  the  assurance  of  a  time  to  be, 

When  every  spirit,  measured  by  the  worth 

Of  its  existence,  shall  in  that  degree 
Achieve  the  glory  of  celestial  birth. 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

Oh,  strange  and  melancholy  form 

Haunting  the  imaginative  sphere 
Wherein  half-human  phantasms  swarm, 

Like  ghosts  of  thoughts  that  wander  here, 
What  art  thou  but  the  very  twin 

And  shadow  of  our  saddest  part, 
A  picture  of  the  doubt  and  sin 

And  madness  of  the  earthly  heart? 

As  if  thou  wert  of  kindred  flesh. 

Thine  every  mood   interprets  ours, 
And  all  our  actions  prove  afresh 

Thy  darkly  philosophic  powers; 
Thou  hast  a  lodge  in  every  mind 

Where  flits  the  intellectual  throng 
Whose  omnipresent  footsteps  find 

An  entrance  by  the  poet's  song. 
55 


56  HAMLET,  PEINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

If  them  wert  mad,  all  men  are  so 

Who  deem  this  life  of  little  worth; 
The  gloom  that  crowned  thee  long  ago 

Is  not  yet  lifted  from  the  earth; 
Still  hypocrites  will  mask  deceit, 

Still  love  is  but  a  secret  pain, 
And  fools,  for  some  delusive  sweet, 

Will  dare  an  everlasting  pain. 

The  puzzle  vast  and  complicate 

Which  ravels  all  the  world's  affairs, 
The  maze  of  love  and  pride  and  hate, 

The  conflict  of  beleaguering  cares, 
All  are  unsolved  as  much  as  when 

Thou  hadst  been  wont  to  brood  them  o'er 
Wand 'ring  apart  from  gayer  men 

Among  the  halls  of  Elsinore. 

O 


ON  CRUELTY  TO  ANIMALS. 

He  is  no  Christian  in  his  deeds 

Who  slays  in  wantonness  of  power 
The  weakest  life  whose  tiny  needs 

Betray  it  in  a  fatal  hour; 
Who  blots  from  time  the  humblest  share 

Of  that  abundant  life  which  throngs 
The  free  domains  of  earth  and  air, 

But  has  no  voice  to  plead  its  wrongs. 

Oh,  ye  who  scornfully  regard 

A  helpless  creature's  dumb  appeal, 
Were  not  your  fate  unjustly  hard 

If  that  great  power  to  whom  ye  kneel 
Should  spurn  your  sorrow  when  ye  pray, 

And  thrust  you  from  the  world,  to  be 
A  jest  for  fiends — to  drift  away, 

A  wreck  upon  Oblivion's  sea  ? 
57 


58  ON   CRUELTY   TO    ANIMALS. 

Has  God  created  life  for  naught, 

That  ye  should  trample  under  foot 
The  seal  of  his  creative  thought, 

Stamped  on  the  lowliest,  feehlest  brute  ? 
When  ye  remember  what  ye  are, 

How  low  in  the  Immortal  eyes, 
No  creature  on  this  sinful  star 

Scems  meet  for  mortals  to  despise. 

No  !    by  that  mercy  which  delays 

To  judge  your  folly  or  your  vice  — 
By  that  one  star  whose  gracious  rays 

Still  point  you  back  to  Paradise  — 
Be  merciful;  stoop  not  to  break 

The  cup  of  life,  however  frail, 
Lest  every  ruin  that  you  make 

Should  cause  in  you  some  good  to  fail. 


SONG  OF  COURAGE. 

Few  are  the  souls  that  never  feel 
Their  baffled  courage  faint  and  reel, 
Dragged  by  an  iron  weight  of  care, 
And  sickened  with  a  keen  despair  ! 

Few  are  the  souls  that  never  bend 
Above  the  bier  of  pallid  Hope, 

Deeming  that  hence  all  strife  must  end, 
And  blind  ambition  cease  to  grope. 

Overmastered  by  its  cankering  wroe, 
That  soul  sinks  tremblingly  and  low, 
Content,  upon  Oblivion's  shore, 
To  rest  —  to  sleep  —  to  be  no  more. 

Oh,  shall  that  prostrate  spirit  rise, 
Awakened  from  its  piteous  trance, 

To  look  in  Disappointment's  eyes. 

And  meet  the  world's  unfriendly  glance  ? 
59 


60  SONG  OF  COURAGE. 

Ay,  fallen  spirit,  lift  thy  head  — 
Hope  does  but  sleep;  she  is  not  dead; 
For,  'neath  her  wearied  lashes  lies 
The  magic  brightness  of  her  eyes  ! 

Arise  !  wilt  thou  be  overthrown, 
And  leave  thy  purpose  unfulfilled, 

Like  one  who  leaves  a  base  of  stone 

Where  some  great  dome  he  meant  to  build  ? 

There  is  no  depth  where  thou  canst  flee 
But  thy  regret  will  follow  thee, 
And  round  thy  barren  pathway  cast 
The  taunting  shadows  of  the  past. 

Oh,  do  not  think  on  what  thou  art, 
But  what  thou  canst  be,  if  thou  wilt  ! 

The  boldest  has  an  anxious  heart, 
But  cowardice  is  kin  to  guilt. 

Dim  not  with  tears  the  rays  that  fire 
The  golden  crown  of  thy  desire  ; 
Like  quenchless  beacons  still  they  shine 
From  jewels  that  may  yet  be  thine. 


SOXG-  OF  COURAGE.  61 

Thy  friends  may  pity,  foes  may  sneer, 

But  heed  them  not;   if  thou  prevail, 
The  voice  of  praise  will  woo  thine  ear, 

But  few  will  reck,  if  thou  shouldst  fail. 

Thyself  must  win,  thyself  must  wear, 
The  gems  of  wealth,  or  thorns  of  care; 
Thyself  must  drink  the  dregs  of  shame, 
Or  quaff  the  precious  wine  of  fame. 

Oh,  while  thou  hast  the  vital  breath 

That  shields  thee  from  the   thrust   of    Death, 

To  none  but  these  thy  victory  owe  : 

Thv  God  above,  thyself  below  ! 


THE  BIRD  OF  PASSAGE. 

All  day  have  thy  long  pinions  beat 

The  illimitable  .seas  of  light; 

All  day,  from  that  aerial  height 
Thine  eyes  have  scanned   the  fields    of  wheat 

That  gleam  beneath  thy  homeward  flight. 

Sometimes  thy  watchful  eyes  have  seen 
Cities  where  many  a  lessened  spire 
Shines  like  a  point  of  diamond  fire 

To  mark  the  leagues  that  lie  between 
Thee  and  the  land  of  thy  desire. 

The  sunrise  pales  across  thy  track, 
.    And  fades  into  the  noon-dav  elare: 

J      O 

The  sunset  fires  suffuse  the  air, 
And  night's  long  draperies  of  black 
Fold  in  the  distance  everywhere. 


THE  BIED    OF  PASSAGE.  63 

Now  mayst  thou  rest,  descending  low 
Among  the  slender  reeds  that  shake 
Along  the  margin  of  the  lake, 

Fretted  by  vagrant  winds  that  blow 
Their  idle  whispers  through  the  brake. 

Oh,  Fancy's  wings  are  strong  as  thine! 

With  thee  she  flies,  she  rests  with  thee. 

And  waits  beside  the  lake  to  see 
The  tardy  moon  arise  and  shine 

Across  the  wide,  unsheltered  lea. 

The  silver  circlet  on  her  brow 

Lights  the  dark-curtained  halls  of  space, 
And  drives  the  shades  from  place  to  place, 

While  the  dim  hills  in  silence  bow 
Before  the  splendor  of  her  face. 

Across  the  prairie,  slope  by  slope, 
Where  rich,  luxurious  grasses  sweep 
Their  surging  waves  down  hollows  deep, 

The  silver-footed  moonbeams  grope 
And  kiss  them  in  their  restless  sleep. 


THE   BIED  OF   PASSAGE. 

Among  the  reeds  the  moonbeams  twine 
Their  fingers  of  ethereal  white, 
And  glimmering  spots  of  argent  light 

Deep  in  the  wrinkled  water  shine, 
Like  jewels  from  the  crown  of  night. 

The  queenly  orb,  ascending  slow 

Her  star-strewn  pathway  up  the  skv, 
Drops  from  the  glittering  depths  on  high 

Her  image  to  the  depths  below, 
In  liquid  glory  there  to  lie. 

Sleep,  wanderer  of  the  atmosphere  ! 
Sleep,  while  the  stealthy  wavelets  roll 
Across  this  broken  silver  bowl, 

That  lights  the  waters  rippling  near 
With  night's  irradiating  soul. 

Sleep,  ere  the  pale  dawn's  noiseless  robe 
Drags  through  the  dew  its  skirts  of  gray 
To  make  a  pathway  for  the  day 

Across  the  dusky,  slumbering  globe, 
And  light  thee  on  thy  homeward  vvav. 


THE  BIRD  OF  PASSAGE.  65 

Oh,  may  that  Power  whose  presence  fills 
This  glorious  vault  from  earth  to  dome, 
Guard  all  who  sleep  and  all  who  roam, 

And  o'er  the  everlasting  hills 

Guide  every  wandering  spirit  home. 


THE  TRUE  POET. 

The  truest  poet  is  the  bard 

Who  sings  for  others  —  one  who  finds 

A  balm  to  solace  aching  minds, 
Though  he  himself  be  evil-starred. 

He  sings  not  to  himself  alone, 
Like  one  who  looks  into  a  glass 

To  view  his  tears  and  cry,  "Alas, 

That  I  such  mournful  hours  have  known  !" 

There  are  a  million  hearts  that  bleed, 
But  have  no  voice  to  tell  their  woe; 
And  tears  in  secret  rivers  flow, 

Making  no  sound  for  love  to  heed. 

To  him  the  right  divine  belongs 
To  crown  affliction,  and  to  fill 
The  hearts  that  suffer  and  are  still, 

With  the  sweet  friendship  of  his  songs. 

66 


THE    TRUE  POET.  67 

His  presence  fills  a  myriad  souls, 

Though  he  himself  be  far  from  them; 
Though  they  but  touch  his  garment's  hem 

His  power  moves  in  them,  and  controls. 

They  know  his  voice;  it  has  a  tone 
That  seems  familiar  to   their  thought 
As  if  his  truthful  heart  had  caught 

A  sense  of  passion  from  their  own. 

Their  struggling  feelings  find  a  vent 

In  his  rich  eloquence  of  pen; 

For  they  are  but  his  fellow  men, 
And  he  their  brother,  wTell  content. 

He  does  not  choose  to  walk  apart, 

With  some  few  worshippers  that  bow 
Whene'er  he  lifts  his  drooping  brow 

To  tell  some  fancy  in  his  heart. 

Where'er  the  people  toil  or  pray, 

He  stands  with  sympathetic  mind, 

And  reads  the  poem  of  mankind 
In  reverent  mood  from  day  to  clay. 


68  THE    TRUE   POET. 

He  lingers  not  by  tinkling  rills 

And  silver  fountain-spray  of  song, 
But  by  that  ocean,  vast  and  strong, 

Of  human  joys  and  human  ills  — 

That  ocean,  whose  impetuous  tide 
Surges  and  flows  forevermore 
Against  the  strange  and  silent  shore 

From  whence  no  echo  e'er  replied. 

His  song  repeats  the  ebb  and  swell 

That  breaks  qn  time's  unyielding  beach, 
As  when  the  winds  and  waters  teach 

Their  music  to  an  ocean-shell. 

Song  is  his  passion  and  his  care; 

In  it  he  lives,  with  it  he  dies; 

Winged  by  its  power,  he  hopes  to  rise  — 
Beyond  success,  beyond  despair, — 

To  those  sublimer  hills  whereof 

He  sings  on  earth,  and  wand'ring  there, 
To  breathe  with  Heaven's  ethereal  air 

The  perfect  harmony  of  love. 


THE    TRUE   POET.  69 

When  sinks  the  monarch  from  his  throne 
To  mingle  with  the  dust  of  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  his  greatness  birth 

Dies  with  him  —  'twas  his  name  alone. 

But  thou,  interpreter  of  meek 

And  voiceless  souls,  when  dies  away 
The  fire  that  lit  thy  honored  clay 

And  warmed  thy  heart  to  feel  and  speak, — 

In  every  mind  and  every  heart, 

In  every  flower,  and  every  breath, 
In  storm  and  sun,  in  life  and  death, 

Thy  spirit  will  outlive  thine  art. 

The  treasured  words  that  thou  hast  said, 
Like  seeds  wide  scattered  from  thy  hand, 
Will  blossom  rich  in  every  land, 

Perpetual  blessings  from  the  dead. 


THE  WANDERER'S  SONG. 

I  have' wandered  through  many  a  land  in  my  time, 
Seen  many  a  sight  that  was  famous  and  strange; 

The  glory  of  kings  in  the  height  of  their  prime, 
The  wrecks  of  ambition,  the  triumphs  of  change; 

The  prince  in  his  palace,  the  clown  in  his  cot, 
The  priest  and  the  soldier,  the  lover  and  lass, 

The  singers  of  earth  who  have  brightened  our  lot, 
And  the  poets  whose  names  are  recorded  on  brass; 

I  have  heard  the  long  thunders  of  eloquence  roll, 

With  the  din  of  applause  sounding  up  on  their  track, 

When  the  heavenward  wings  of  a  fiery  soul 
Beat  up  to  the  stars  and  swept  gracefully  back; 

I  have  drunk  from  the  chalice  that  scholars  bestow, 
The  lore  of  the  stars,  and  the  secrets  of  earth; 

At  the  shrines  of  the  world  I  have  bended  me  low, 
At  the  footstool  of  genius,  honor  and  worth. 

70 


THE   WANDEEEE\S  SONG.  71 

But  wherever  mv  feet  have  been  prompted  to  roam, 
Through  the   temples  of  art,  o'er  the  plains  of  the 
West, 

In  the  din  of  the  world,  or  the  quiet  of  home, 

I  have  found  that  one  passion  o'ermasters  the  rest. 

'Tis  the  life  of  all  life,  and  the  balm  for  all  care: 
r    'Tis  the  angel  that  lightens  the  toil  of  the  slave; 
'Tis  the  lamp  of  the  wise  and  the  crown  of  the  fair, 
And  the  beacon  that  brightens  the  dream  of  the  brave. 

'Tis  the  burden  of  song  and  the  genius  of  art, 
The  meed  of  devotion,  the  watchword  of  Truth, 

The  power  that  finds  voice  in  the  lowliest  heart, 
In  the  wrinkles  of  age  and  the  blushes  of  youth. 

One  halo  of  sympathy  girdles  the  earth, 

That   will   never  grow   dim   till    her  death-doom   of 

flame. 
From  the  throne  of  the  king  to  the  cottager's  hearth 

The  lips  of  the  people  re-echo  its  name. 

A  health  to  dear  Love  !     In  the  fountain  of  song 

We    will   quafT  one    rich    measure,  which    she  shall 
inspire. 


72  THE   WANDERER'S  SONG. 

A  curse  on  his  head  who  shall  do  thee  a  wrong  !  — 
The  curse  of  remorse  and  unsated  desire  ! 

A  health  to  dear  Love  !     May  her  blessing  descend 
On  the  hearts  that  recall  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh 

o 

The  head  that  was  never  too  weary  to  bend 

O'er  the  cradle  that  rocked  to  a  music  gone  by. 

We  will  drink  with  the  world,  and  the  world  will  reply, 
Forgetting  awhile  all  its  passions  in  this, 

And  remembering  only  the  lip  and  the  eye 

That  could  sink  all  delights  in  a  smile  or  a  kiss. 

A  health  to  dear  Love  !  our  first  friend  and  our  last : 
In  childhood  she  guarded;  in   manhood   she  charms; 

And  at  length,  when  our  joys  and  our  sorrows  are  past, 
May  we  sink  to  our  rest  in  her  sheltering  arms  ! 


THE  UNSEEN  HARVEST. 

"  And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend." 

— LONGFELLOW. 

My  friend,  you  sang  one  happy  night 
A  song  so  full  of  tenderness 
That  tears  which  I  could  not  repress 

Came  up  in  mists  before  my  sight. 

You  did  not  know  —  how  could  you  know  ? 
That  every  sound,  like  sunlit  rain, 
Cooled  the  parched  garden  of  my  brain, 

For  germs  of  Heaven  to  live  and  grow. 

Ah,  who  on  earth  can  tell  how  deep 
The  tides  of  passion  flow  along  ? 

'T  will  need  an  angel's  hand  to  reap 
The  harvest  of  one  mortal  song  ! 

73 


74  THE    UNSEEN  HARVEST. 

Your  music  was  a  frame  of  light 

Which  held  a  picture  in  my  breast  :  — 

A  woman  singing  to  the  night 
A  melody  of  faith  and  rest : 

The  hands  are  folded,  and  the  face 
Is  lifted  to  the  sky,  as  though  — 

An  exile  from  that  glorious  place  — 
She  yearns  to  leave  the  gloom  below. 

The  features  have  no  lovely  mould, 
But  yet  they  seem  surpassing  fair, 

As  if  God's  presence,  as  of  old, 
Had  shed  a  ray  of  glory  there. 

Her  music  has  no  juggling  skill  ; 

She  sings  to  Heaven,  and  not  to  earth, 
And  every  strain  steals  back  to  thrill 

The  patient  heart  which  gave  it  birth. 

Sometimes  methinks  her  fingers  press 
This  feverish,  weary  soul  of  mine 

With  the  invisible  caress 
Of  pity,  human,  yet  divine. 


THE    UNSEEN  HARVEST.  75 

Sometimes,  like  one  who  stops  to  hear 

The  warbling  of  a  bird  that  sings 
Its  vespers  in  some  covert  near. 

Ere  twilight  spreads  her  brooding  wings, 

I  listen  in  the  solitude 

And  gathering  shadows  of  the  mind 
To  learn  that  psalm  of  grief  subdued, 

That  peace  whereto  we  are  so  blind. 

As  one  who  stands,  concealed  by  night, 

Before  some  window  where  a  face 
Smiles  from  the  indoor  life  and  light 

Which  shed  a  splendor  round  the  place  : 

So  wandering  memory  sees  you  then, 

Encircled  by  the  glow  of  years, 
And  all  unknown,  bequeaths  again 

Her  melancholy  thanks  in  tears. 

Ah,  not  the  world's  obsequious  praise, 

Nor  the  cold  flattery  of  the  tomb, 
Can  sweeten  Love's  unselfish  days 

Or  take  one  shadow  from  their  gloom; 


76  THE    UNSEEN  HARVEST. 

But  'tis  the  humbler  fame  which  springs 
From  grateful  spirits  that  can  give 

Divinity  to  mortal  things 

And  bid  a  transient  action  live. 

For  he  who  showers  his  kindly  deeds 
Sows  not  alone  on  earthly  sod, 

But  scatters  with  immortal  seeds 
The  unseen  harvest  fields  of  God. 


THE  FALLS. 

Here  let  us  pause  and  listen, — 

You  are  weary  of  wand'ring  so  long, — 
The  city's  confusion  and  discord 

Are  hushed  to  a  murmured  song, 
And  the  hoarse,  deep  tone  of  the  river 

Rises  triumphantly  strong. 

Above  the  brink  of  the  torrent, 
That  plunges  down  with  a  roar, 

Like  a  shattered  column  of  silver 
Strewn  over  a  shining  floor 

The  moon's  long  image  lies  rippling 
In  splendor  from  shore  to  shore. 

The  mills,  with  their  ponderous  humming, 

And  clustered  windows  of  light, 
Glare  out  from  the  clinging  shadows 


78  THE  FALLS. 

That  checker  their  massive  height 
Like  giants  who  watch  from  their  stronghold 
For  the  prey  they  devour  in  the  night. 

But  hearken  not  to  their  clamor; 

They  are  but  as  sounds  of  a  day 
To  the  voice  that  rolls  upward  forever 

From  the  cloudy  veil  of  the  spray, 
Crying  in  prophet-like  thunder 

To  all  who  pass  by  on  the  way. 

Methinks  'tis  eternity's  echo, 

Attuned  to  a  mortal  ear  ;  — 
A  symbol  of  unfelt  grandeur 

That  is  faintly  mirrored  here  ;  — 
An  earthly  revelation 

Of  the   profounder  sphere. 

Ah,  how  it  steals  up  through  the  silence 

That  it  scarcely  seems  to  jar  ! 
As  when  in  some  great  cathedral, 

Where  the  holy  singers  are. 
The  hush  that  broods  over  the  people 

The  music  does  not  mar. 


THE  FALLS. 

'Tis  the  organist  of  Nature, 
Who  plays  in  a  solemn  key 

The  harmony  majestic 
That  forever  seems  to  be 

In  the  moaning  of  a  tempest 
And  the  surging  of  the  sea. 

When  the  contemplative  spirit 
Is  wrapped  in  the  starry  calm, 

The  slumberous  chant  of  the  water 
Floats  over  the  soul  like  balm, 

With  the  power  and  exaltation 
Of  an  old  Hebraic  psalm. 

The  Past  and  the  Present  and  Future 
Join  in  the  chords  sublime, 

And  the  long  reverberations 

That  ring  through  the  halls  of  Time 

Float  up  the  twilight  of  ages 
In  a  melancholy  chime. 

Perhaps  some  curious  stranger, 

Pausing  where  now  we  stand, 
Wrill  hear  in  the  sounding  torrent 


80  THE  FALLS. 

The  speech  of  a  greater  land, 
While  the  lights  of  another  city 
Stream  downward  on  every  hand. 

And  we,  who  now,  like  shadows, 
Glide  over  the  disc  of  earth, 

Perhaps  may  come  to  his  fancy 
Like  ghosts  to  an  alien  hearth, 

And  point  him  to  the  cycle 
Of  a  perished  nation's  birth; 

Even  as  now  a  phantom 

Of  the  unhistoric  past 
Points  down  the  long  oblivion 

Where  centuries  gather  fast. 
And  we,  with  our  poor  achievements, 

Will  be  forgotten  at  last. 


DEDICATION  FOR  A  SCRAP-BOOK. 

As  one  who  journeys  o'er 'a  path  unknown, 

Through  pleasant  meadows,  where,  on  either  hand, 
The  odorous  flowers  in  brilliant  clusters  stand, 

And,  loth  to  leave  such  beauty  there  alone, 

He  plucks  some  flower,  more  fragrant,  fairer  grown, 
Than  all  the  rest,  and,  still  dissatisfied, 
He  turns  his  wandering  steps  from  side  to  side, 

Where  starry  faces  shine  by  clod  and  stone  ;  — 

And  when  the  shadows  drape  the  earth  in  brown, 
He  hastens  homeward,  bearing,  as  he  goes, 

The  dews  of  Heaven,  that  softly  scatter  down 
To  kiss  his  treasures,  and  the  night-wind  blows 

Their  freshened  odor  through  the  dusty  town, 
As  the  tired  wanderer  seeks  his  deep  repose  :  — 

So  he  who  gathers,  as  he  goes  along 

The  path  of  life,  some  flowers  of  thought  and  song, 

And  bears  them  with  him,  though  they  mav  not  claim 

The  honor  due  to  some  illustrious  name, 

81 


82  LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

Shall  feel  their  freshness,  like  some  olden  tune 
That  warms  December  with  a  song  of  June, 
And  hear  their  voices  ringing  through  his  breast 
In  the  dark  shadows  leading  on  to  rest. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

"  I  would  that  Love  were  a  philosopher," 

That  she  might  clasp  the  hand  of   Death  and  say 
"  Thou  art  my  friend  ;  I  will  not  mourn,  nor  pray 

For  thee  to  leave  my  presence."     Then  to  her 

Would  answer  Death's  black-hooded  messenger  : 
"'Tis  better  so  ;  let  us  be  friends  to-day, 
For  thou  wilt  know,  when  I  am  far  away, 

That  't  was  an  angel  sent  to  minister." 

I  would  't  were  so,  for  then  the  suffering  wight 
To  his  last  bed  in  happy  mood  might  creep, 

And  hear  no  sobs  of  agony  and  fright 

Break  the  dread  languor  of  his  fatal  sleep, 

Nor  see  dear  faces,  desolately  white, 

Blotted  with  tears  he  would  not  have  them  weep. 


ST.  VALENTINE. 


TO 


Oh,  lady,  if  to  you  there  came 

A  lover  with  a  humble  name, 

Strong  in  the  knighthood  of  his  youth, 

With  heart  of  love  and  lips  of  truth, 

What  greater  tribute  could  he  pay 

Than  thus  with  heartfelt  voice  to  say  ?  _ 

"  You  wake  in  me  a  nobler  thrill 

Of  purer  thought  and  gentler  will, 

A  tenderer  manhood,  none  the  less 

Heroic  for  its  tenderness. 

Your  fancies,  while  they  please,  inspire 

And  kindle  a  divine  desire  — 

A  wish  to  reach  the  highest  good 

That  crowns  the  height  of  womanhood. 

Your  smiles  and  tears  in  turn  allure 

To  be  as  pure  as  you  are  pure." 


84  ST.    VALENTINE. 

Thus  might  he  say,  and  not  blaspheme 
The  charm  of  Love's  ennobling  dream 
With  those  wild  rhapsodies  which  praise 
The  beauty  born  of  summer  days. 
What  matter  though  your  cheek  be  fail- 
As  the  last  glow  of  sunset  air  ? 
What  though  your  eyes  were  amethyst, 
Your  lips  more  sweet  than  lips  have  kissed  ? 
What  though  on  hand  and  brow  and  tress 
Were  stamped  a  perfect  loveliness  ? 
And  though  your  voice  had  power  to  woo 
Seraphic  eyes  to  look  on  you  ?  — 
We  do  not  worship  gods  of  stone, 
Nor  trust  in  loveliness  alone. 
No  !  'tis  the  beauty  of  the  soul 
That  sanctifies  and  crowns  the  whole, 
Imparts  the  grace  that  men  revere, 
And  makes  existence  doubly  clear. 

Oh,  lady,  when  the  happy  prime 
Of  Youth's  delightful  summertime 
Has  passed  into  the  riper  age 
That  adds  to  life  its  holiest  page, 
Mav  men  look  up  to  you  and  say  — 


ST.    VALENTINE.  S5 

"  Her  beauty  has  not  passed  away  ; 
But  every  grace  of  soul  or  mind, 
By  love  or  sorrow  well  refined, 
Has  shed  a  sacred  halo  o'er 
Her  beauty,  purer  than  before. 
Her  hand  is  stronger  to  uphold, 
Her  voice  to  counsel,  than  of  old. 
Beside  her  men  grow  clean,  and  thrust 
Their  evil  passions  into  dust  ; 
For,  lo  !  in   her  we  know  and  see 
The  flower  of  women  yet  to  be, 
Supreme  in  love,  in  faith  supreme, 
And  strong  to  conquer  and  redeem." 


THE  LAST  HOUR. 

Good-bye,  old  year,  good-bye  ! 
The  fairy  of  the  lonely  night 
Has  draped  the  woods  in  frosty  lace  ; 
Each  branch  beneath  the  glittering  sky 
Is  fringed  with  jewels,  silver-white, 
Transforming  e'en  the  dreariest  place 
To  an  enchanted  hall  of  ice 
In  Winter's  crystal  Paradise. 

Good-bye,  old  year,  good-bye  ! 
'Tis  fitting' in  a  spot  like  this 
To  say  the  words,  and  feel  the  thought 
Press  on  our  spirits  like  a  kiss 
From  thine  invisible  lips  —  as  though 
Our  listening  suspense  had  caught 
A  sharp,  cold  breath  of  silent  woe  ! 
86 


THE  LAST  HOUR.  87 

Good-bye,  old  year,  good-bye  ! 
Youth  smiles,  and  lightly  bids  thee  go, 
But  age,  remembering,  with  a  sigh, 
How  many  a  friend  has  parted  so, 
Looks  sadly  down  the  misty  past, 
Through  shadows  of  the  years  gone  by, 
To  watch  thee  fade  from  life  at  last. 

We  leave  with  thee,  for  good  or  ill, 
Our  gifts  of  action  —  all  are  thine  ; 
But  there  are  thoughts  we  cherish  still 
That  parting  makes  but  more  divine  ; 
Memorials  of  thy  greener  hours, 
Bright  immortelles  that  used  to  shine 
Amid  thy  wreaths  of  earthly  flowers. 

There  is  a  voice  thou  canst  not  take 
From  out  the  chambers  of  the  mind  ; 
A  face  which  thou  must  leave  behind; 
A  charm  thy  sadness  cannot  break  ! 
Hope,  Memory,  Love  —  the  sisterhood 
Of  deathless  thoughts  —  these  still  remain 
To  write  a  prophecy  of  good 
On  every  future  leaf  of  pain. 


SS  THE  LAST  HOUR. 

Good-bye,  old  year,  good-bye  ! 
As  those  who  soon  must  follow  thee 
We  say  the  words,  and  think  of  how 
These  snowy  flowers  on  shrub  and  tree 
Will' blossom  underneath  the  stars, 
In  coming  winters,  e'en  as  now, 
And  the  dead  grass,  like  sheeny  spars, 
Bend  over  many  a  quiet  brow. 

Oh,  when  in  stillness  like  to  this 
We  glide  beyond  the  realm  of  clay, 
Be  this  our  praise  :  that  we  have  left 
Some  fragrant  memory  of  bliss, 
Some  balm  of  hope  to  grief  bereft, 
Some  light  of  that  celestial  day 
Which  parts  the  spirit  from  the  clod 
And  ushers  in  the  years  of  God. 


BABY  BESSIE. 

Wondering  eves  that  laugh  and  shine 
With  a  deep,  unshadowed  light, 

Is  there  not  a  gleam  divine 

Lingering  in  your  eyes  to-night  ? 

Waxen  arms  that  never  fold, 
But  forever  grope  and  reach, 

Many  hearts  have  you  to  hold, 
But  you  clasp  them,  all  and  each. 

Ruddy  lips,  that  woo  a  kiss 
As  a  blossom  courts  the  sun  ; 

Will  you  be  as  sweet  as  this 

When  your  budding  years  are  done  ? 

Tiny  feet  that  dance  and  toss 
In  a  rapturous  burst  of  glee, — 

Will  your  step  as  lightly  cross 

Treacherous  snares  and  learn  to  flee  ? 
89 


BABY    BESSIE. 

Helpless  fairy,  cunning  elf, 

Cooing  in  your  mother's  arms, 

You  are  wisdom's  truest  self, 

You  have  beauty's  native  charms. 

Oh,  you  have  some  witching  art, 

As  you  nestle,  like  a  dove, 
Close  to  that  protecting  heart, 

With  your  wordless  sounds  of  love. 

Wee  enchantress,  sweet  coquette, 
When  you  smile  the  sunbeams  shine 

Happy  birds  sang  never  yet 

With  such  silvery  notes  as  thine. 

So  forever  may  you  sing 

From  a  heart  as  undefiled, 
And  your  gayest  laughter  ring 

With  the  music  of  a  child. 


A    PRAYER. 

Oh,  God,  when  all  alone  we  stand, 

Secluded  with  our  thoughts  and  thee, 
Without  one  human  voice  at  hand 

To  cavil,  or  an  eye  to  see  ; 
When  the  dissembling  masks  we  wear, — 

The  jests  wherewith  we  baffle  truth, — 
The   pride   which   glosses   heart-sick   care, 

The  follies  of  neglectful  youth  :  — 

When  these  forsake  the  doubtful  mind, 

And  leave  it  naked  to  despair, 
And  in  the  dark  we  grope  to  find 

Some  pathway  to  the  upper  air  ;  — 
Then,  from  the  gloomy  maze  of  doubt, 

Oh,  God,  our  unknown  prayers  ascend 
That  Truth  at  length  may  find  us  out 

And  lead  us  homeward,  to  the  end  ! 
91 


A    PRAYER. 

Ah,  me,  this  hunger  makes  us  kin  ! 

For  every  soul,  at  times,  will  cry 
From  those  lone  chambers  far  within 

The  portals  of  the  lip  and  eye; 
But  none  save  Thou  alone  canst  know 

The  anguished  moments  when  we  cast 
Our  every  mortal  instinct  low, 

And  plead  for  only  truth  at  last  ! 

Oh,  pity  Thou  our  feeble  hate, 

Our  shallow  thoughts,  our  bitter  zeal, 
The  misery  we  ourselves  create 

To  feel,  and  make  our  brothers  feel  ! 
Yea,  teach  us  Thou  alone  art  right, 

And  that  our  cherished  creeds  may  be 
But  rays  of  that  diviner  light, 

Which  glorifies  and  shines  from  Thee. 


THE   SNOW-FALL. 

Down  from  the  limitless  caverns  of  air 

The  snow  descends  with  a  silent  sweep. 
Old  Winter  shakes  from  his  rimy  hair 
A  cloak  for  the  landscape  brown  and  bare, 
Where  the  flowers  uncovered  sleep. 

Over  the  skeleton  trees  the  flakes, 

Like  a  white-folded  mantle,  are  hurriedly  spread  ; 
Over  the  breasts  of  the  shining  lakes, 
And  the  banks  where  the  reed,  like  a  coward,  shakes 

Its  withered  and  slender  head.     . 

On  the  forms  of  the  living,  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

It  drops  with  a  ceaseless  and  measured  flow, 
And  our  eyes  look  up  to  the  depths  o'erhead, 
Till  from  heights  never-ending  God  seems  to  shed 
The  infinite  hosts  of  the  snow  ! 
93 


94  THE  MOON'S  ECLIPSE. 

And  so  peace  comes  to  the  eager  soul 

From  spaces  far  deeper  than  fancy  can  go  — 

White,  beautiful  thoughts,  with  a  gentle  control, — 

Till  Eternity's  sunrise  in  glory  unroll 
Over  a  spirit  as  pure   as  the  snow. 


SONNET  — THE  MOON'S  ECLIPSE. 

How  like  this  orb  —  who,  from  her  maiden  throne, 
Amid  the  blossomed  desert  of  the  sky, 
Attracts  the  homage  of  the  wandering  eye, 

By  reason  of  a  beauty  all  her  own,  — 

Is  a  great  love,  whose  white  and  modest  zone 
Moves  not  above  the  envious  world  so  high 
But  that  gross  shadows,  creeping  slowly  by, 

Eclipse  what  once  was  purity  alone. 

But  yet,  not  long  such  darkness  can  obscure 

The  heaven-born  light  of  that  transcendent  sphere 

Forth  from  the  veil,  in  radiance  still  as  pure, 
It  bursts  serenely,  and  the  heart  is  clear  ; 

Through  every  gloom  its  hallowed  charms  endure, 
And  each  new  peril  makes  it  trebly  dear. 


CARLYLE. 

i 

Unflattering  Mentor,  Caledonian  seer, 
Whom  some  deride,  yet  all  are  forced  to  hear, 
Thyself  art  gone,  but  thou  hast  left  behind 
The  giant  footprints  of  a  noble  mind, 
Which  others  follow  doubtfully  and  slow, 
As  half-afraid  to  linger  or  to  go! 

Impatient  teacher  of  a  headstrong  age, 
Too  vain  to  brook  the   prophet  or  the  sage, 
Thy  feet  upon  another  Sinai  trod, 
And  visions  blazed  upon  thy  soul  from  God, 
While  recreant  nations,  guiltier  than  of  old, 
Kneeled  to  that  glittering  superstition  —  gold  ! 

Thou  wast  not  coined  of  the  degenerate  stuff 
Which  holds  the  fashion  of  the  hour  enough  ; 
Thou  wast  not  moulded  of  the  waxen  clay 
Which  takes  the  image  of  the  passing  day, 

95 


96  CARLYLE. 

But  on  the  front  of  all  thine  actions  shone 
The  stamp  of  power  —  to  be  thyself  alone  ! 

It  was  not  thine  to  soothe  the  world's  content 
With  garnished  phrases,  half-sincerely  meant; 
To  lull  despair  with  eloquence  of  sound  ; 
To  cheer  ambition  to  destruction's  bound; 
To  prate  the  flimsy  gossip  of  the  time, 
And  furnish  systems  reason  for  a  crime  ! 

Thy  mission  compassed  a  diviner  aim 

Than  present  glory  or  expected  fame, 

And  though  it  was  thy  destiny  to  feel 

The  barbs  which  natures  such  as  thine  conceal  ; 

Though  warped  by  grief  to  aspects  cold  and  rude, 

And  cankered  by  the  rust  of  solitude, 

Yet  e'en  such  fretful  maladies  as  these 

Might  shame  luxurious,  philosophic  ease. 

It  chafed  thy  soul  to  know  how  strangely  numb 

The  frozen  scruples  of  the  world  become; 

How  dully  blind  the  spiritual  sight 

Where  men  forge  truth,  and  usage  makes  the  right! 


CARLYLE.  97 

Thou  wast  the  prophet  of  the  subtler  day, 
Crying  along  thy  solitary  way 
To  all  the  people  with  a  voice  that  knew 
The  noblest  courtesy  of  being  true. 

Proud  Mammon's  gay  and  sycophantic  throng 
Needs  not  thy  voice  in  eulogy  or  song, 
For  slavish  myriads  round  his  gaudy  throne 
Abjectly  kneel,  and  wish  his  pomp  their  own; 
But  who  like  thee  is  left  to  teach  and  warn, 
Despite  neglect,  or  flattery,  or  scorn  ? 

Such  men  as  thoti  bear  on  from  height  to  height 
The  kindling  beacons  of  Promethean  light, 
Whose  glory,  streaming  through  the  dusk  of  time, 
Paints  the  vague  future  with  a  glow  sublime, 
Yet  startles  them  who  love  the  drowsy  shade 
Which  Custom's  hoary  eminence  has  made. 

Ay,  such  as  thou  —  when  Mammon's  carnal  power 
Grows  drunk  with  madness  in  a  braggart  hour  — 
When  ominous  fingers  trace  upon  the  wall 
Truth's  malediction  brooding  over  all  — 
Fear   not  to  read  the  Babylonian's  doom, 
And  point  oppression  to  its  final  tomb. 


98  CAELYLE. 

Oh,  let  thy  frailties  perish  with  the  dust 

Which  Death  unburdens  of  its  weary  trust  ; 

Let  men  forget  thee  in  thy  mortal  frame. 

The  exhaustless  fountain  whence  thy  greatness  came 

May  lie  beyond  this  short  and  narrow  vale, 

But  its  deep  waters  never  pause  or  fail  ; 

And  they  who  love  the  power  to  feel  and  think 

Will  stoop  beside  their  lucid  springs  to  drink, 

And  quaff  from  thence  the  intellectual  wine 

That  flows  eternal  from  a  soul  like  thine. 


TO  A  YOUNG  MAN. 

Dream  not  of  love  !  —  spend   not  thy  youth 
In  vain  imaginings  of  "rood 

o  o  o  ' 

Though  fair  and  sweet  and  full  of  truth 
Seem  thine  ideal  womanhood. 

This  fleeting  vision  —  though  so  pure  — 
That  brightens  many  an  idle  day, 

Is  but  a  gay  mirage  to  lure 

Thy  life  from  its  appointed  way. 

Pursue  no  phantom  such  as  this  ; 

It  pleases  but  to  cheat  at  last. 
'Tis  but  a  shadowy  shape  of  bliss, 

And  leaves  no  brightness  on  the  past. 

True  love  is  only  his  reward 

Whose  life  deserves  the  precious  meed. 
A  great  affection  owns  no  lord 

Who  wins  no  palm  for  thought  or  deed. 
99 


100  TO  A    YOUNG   MAN. 

Thou  needst  not  search  for  Love,  for  she 
When  thou  art  toiling  in  thy  place  — 

Will  surely  come  and  look  on  thee, 
With  Heaven's  own  glory  in  her  face. 

While  thou  art  battling  for  renown 
Amid  the  tumult  of  the  age, 

Her  hands  will  bring  a  fresher  crown 
Than  ever  laureled  king  or  sage. 

Oh,  what  a  wealth  of  manhood  then 
Canst  thou  lay  gladly  at  her  feet  ! 

What  power  and  hope  that  other  men 
Have  wasted  in  their  own  conceit  ! 

And  she  will  soothe  thy  weariest  hour, 
And  cheer  the  gloom  of  thy  despair  ; 

Her  touch  will  give  thee  newer  power 
To  conquer  doubt  and  laugh  at  care. 

Then  sigh  no  more  for  joys  to  be  ;  — 
Somewhere,  on  some  Elvsian  slope, 

Love  gathers  flowers  to  weave  for  thee 
A  deathless  crown  of  bliss  and  hope. 


THE  MILLS  — :A  KANC  £V.  J  i 

We  stood  within  the  frowning  mills 
When  night  lay  sleeping  on  the  hills. 
A  din  of  sound,  a  glare  of  light, 
Went  flashing  through  the  ear  and  sight. 
The  brawny  laborers  moved  about, 
Among  the  shadows,  in  and  out, 
Or  bent  above  the  scented  pine 
With  but  the  language  of  a  sign. 

The  chain-bound  logs,  whose  rugged  bark 
Dripped  with  the  water's  clinging  mark, 
Shot  underneath  the  flying  knife 
That  glided  through  their  sluggish  life. 
With  constant  stroke  the  shining  wheel 
Hurled  down  its  viewless  blades  of  steel, 
And  smote  with  an  unwavering  sweep 
The  massive  giants  in  their  sleep. 
101 


102  THE  MILLS—  A  FANCY. 

Above,  the  huge  and  dusty  beams, 
Half-seen  through  shades  and  flaring  gleams, 
Frowned  from  their  dark  and  caverned  height, 
Where  crouche'd  the  sullen  gloom   of  night, 
Jealous  that  mortals  should  invade 
\Iis  lonely  J'.eritlge'O'i'  shade. 


Beneath,  the  dusky  river  lay, 
Where  thronged  the  drifted  logs  at  bay, 
Floating  in  darkness,  side  by  side, 
Shorn  of  their  old,  majestic  pride. 
But  in  my  thought  each  fallen  king 
Still  wore  the  rustling  garb  of  spring, 
And  answered  with  continual  sighs 
The  wind  that  haunts  the  northern  skies. 
And  other  voices  entered  in, 
Like  chorus  to  the  measured  din, 
And  sang  amid   the  jarring   hum 
A  song  of  riper  days  to  come. 

"  O,  prostrate  monarchs,"  —  thus  the  song 
"  Although  your  sinews  white  and  strong 
Shall  ne'er  in  wintry  hours  withstand 
The  tempests  of  a  stormy  land, 


THE  HILLS  — A  FANCY.  103 

Perhaps,  in  some  remoter  clime, 
Your  life,  through  long  decades  of  time, 
In  loving  use  familiar  grown, 
Shall  wear  a  beauty  not  its  own  ; 
Then  hands  as  soft  as  summer  flowers 
Shall  press  thee  in  the  twilight  hours, 
When  the  red  fire-light's  dancing  gleams 
Wrap  thee  in  happy  sunset  dreams. 

u  Perhaps  some  mother  then  shall  croon 
For  childhood's  ears,  a  cradle-tune, 
Or  Love's  enraptured  passion  trace 
A  blush  on  some  enkindled  face, 
Or  careless  voices,  clear  and  gay, 
Laugh  down  the  troubles  of  the  clay. 
Mayhap  the  wanderer  may  recall 
Thy  form  in  his  ancestral  hall, 
And  lay  his  hands  on  thee  to  bless, 
With  one  long  sigh  of  tenderness. 
And  at  the  touch  will  come  again 
The  thought  of  half- forgotten  men, 
Of  lovely  faces,  old  and  young, 
The  beaming  eye,  the  gentle  tongue, 
And  all  the  dearest  scenes  of  earth 


104  VICTORY  IN  DEATH. 

That  clustered  round  an  olden  hearth. 
And  while  he  dreams  his  head  will  rest 
In  silence  on  thy  carven  breast, 
Lest  other  hands  should  bear  away 
The  token  of  his  childhood's  day." 


VICTORY  IN  DEATH. 

Like  two  relentless  combatants  that  fight 

O 

In  some  lone  place,  remote  from  human  aid, 

Till  both  sink  down,  with  broken  weapons  laid 
By  nerveless  arms,  while  o'er  their  bloody  sight 
Drops  the  black  pall  of  Death's  concealing  night  ; 

So  often  man,  against  some  vice  arrayed 

That  drags  him  down  with  purpose  to  degrade 
His  noblest  aspirations  toward  the  right, 
Struggles  to  win  dominion  o'er  his  foe,  — 

At  length  to  conquer  ; —  but  he  fights  in  vain  ; 
For,  when  his  sin  lies  powerless  and  low, 

He  falls  himself,  overmastered  by  his  pain  ; 
And,  while  his  life  ebbs  piteously  slow, 

No  heart  but  God's  can  count  his  bitter  gain. 


FAME. 

Close  to  Death's  portals  a  minstrel  lay, 

His  silent  harp  unstrung  ; 
And  he  wept  to  think  he  must  pass  away 

With  his  noblest  songs  unsung. 

But  the  shadowy  angel  to  whom  belongs 
The  sceptre  of  gloom  and  dread 

Whispered,  "  The  blessing  of  thine  own  songs 
Crowns  thee,  living  or  dead. 

"Thy  fame  lies  deep  in  a  tender  heart, 

As  pearls  lie  under  the  sea, 
And  the  tears  thy  music  has  caused  to  start 

Are  jewels  that  shine  for  thee. 

"  The  holy  passions  which  thou  has  stirred  — 
The  memories  passing  sweet  — 

Fancies  no  genius  can  ever  word  — 
Dreams  Love  can  never  repeat  — 
108 


106  FAME. 

"  The  comfort  that  steals  to  the  wearied  brain  — 

The  aspirations  divine  — 
And  the  faith  which  lightens  the  throb  of  pain  - 

Such  laurels  of  fame  are  thine. 

'•  What  matters  it  to  the  lark  who  sings 
In  the  heart  of  the  morning  glow 

That  the  airy  sweep  of  its  tiny  wings 
Is  veiled  from  the  world  below  ? 

"If  it  touch  one  heart  with  its  passionate  strain, - 
Lift  one  thought  nearer  to  God, — 

It  has  not  risen  unknown  or  in  vain 
From  its  nest  in  the  humble  sod. 

"  Such  are  the  wreaths  that  the  angels  wear. 
And  the  mortals  who  win  them  here  — 

Some  with  the  crown  of  a  grateful  prayer, 
Some  with  the  meed  of  a  tear." 


THE    SABBATH. 

'Tis  a  law  ordained  by  nature, 

And  sanctified  by  God, 
That  rest  should  come  to  the  weary 

As  clew  to  a  drooping  sod  ; 

That  peace  should  come  to  the  troubled 

And  faltering  heart  of  care, 
As  moonlight  steals  through  the  darkness 

To  mellow  the  sombre  air. 

As  flowers  scatter  their  fragrance, 
As  birds  in  the  gloaming  sing, 

As  snow  descends  in  the  winter, 
As  leaves  burst  forth  in  the  spring, 

As  a  wind  to  a  sweating  forehead 
That  is  faint  with  the  noonday  sun, 

So  comes  the  Sabbath  to  mortals 
With  the  blessing  of  labors  done. 
107 


108  THE  SABBATH. 

There  needs  some  cloister  of  silence, 
Remote  from  the  turmoil  of  men, 

Some  Eden  of  peace-giving  beauty 
Where  Heaven  is  reflected  again, 

That  the  soul  may  pause  in  its  journey, 
And  know  that  the  desert  of  time 

Still  holds  an  un withered  oasis 
To  lighten  its  desolate  clime. 

Oh,  sacred  forever  to  worship 

That  spot  in  its  quiet  should  be, 
Where  the  spirit  may  drink  from  the  fountains 

Which  rise  from  Eternity's  sea  ; 

Where  the  aching  bosom  of  sorrow 

Forgets,  for  a  little,  its  pain, 
And  the  burdens  endurance  must  carry 

Are  lifted  from  body  and  brain. 

As  a  traveler  glances  a  moment 
Through  the  cottage's  open  door, 

And  sees  the  home  of  his  fancy 
Pictured,  as  often  before, 


THE  FATAL  SEARCH.  109 

So  the  Sabbath  is  but  a  portal 

Through  which  the  spirit  may  see 
Its  home  far  off  like  a  vision 

Of  happiness  yet  to  be. 


THE  FATAL  SEARCH. 

Like  one  who  leaves  the  paths  his  fellows  tread, 
And  braves  the  dangerous  wilderness  around 
To  seek  an  Eden  none  have  ever  found, 

And,  lost  in  mazes  which  he  cannot  thread. 

Wanders  till  his  bewildered  steps  are  led 

To  walls  of  rock,  whose  gloomy  heights  are  crowned 
By  falling  shades  and  loneliness  profound, 

And  there  sinks  down  in  weariness  and  dread  — 

So  he  whose  falsehood  or  untaught  conceit 
Allures  him  to  explore  the  wilds  of  vice, 

Follows  a  poor  mirage,  a  bitter  sweet, 

A  glittering  bubble  —  and  himself  the  price  — 

Until  he  sinks  despairing  at  the  feet 

Of  Death's  stern  gates,  remote  from  Paradise  ! 


UNWRITTEN  POETRY. 

The  noblest  poetry  of  earth 

Is  not  invoked  by  mortal  pen; 
The  sweetest  song  ne'er  finds  a  birth 

Save  in   the  voiceless  hearts  of  men. 
We  only  use  our  stammering  speech 

To  shadow  forth  the  hidden  mind, 
And  with  uncertain  fingers  reach 

For  chords  we  know  not  how  to  find. 

From  morn's  baptismal  dew  and  fire 

Till  evening's  lingering  sunset  flame, 
All  Nature's  book,  all  Nature's  choir, 

Is  full  of  thoughts  without  a  name  ; 
And  Night,  with  her  mysterious  beams —  t 

Lamps  of  the  speculative  soul  — 
Pours  forth  uncomprehended  dreams 

On  the  dim  heaven's  majestic  scroll. 
110. 


UNWRITTEN  POETRY.  Ill 

There's  poetry  in  Love's  clear  eye 

Which  genius  vainly  seeks  to  write  : 
There's  melody  in  laugh  and  sigh 

Which  only  lives  in  our  delight  ; 
There's  feeling  which  ourselves  alone 

May  cherish,  but  can  never  speak  ; 
There's  joy  which  must  be  all  our  own, 

Since  hearts  are  strong  and  lips  are  weak. 

Yet  how  our  unfledged  spirits  long 

To  soar  beyond  this  earthly  wall, 
And  blend  in  one  o'ermastering  song 

The  music  which  is  in  us  all  ! 
With  eager  breath  we  strive  to  fan 

Emotion's  still  and  holy  blaze 
Into  an  altar  fire  that  man 

Shall  worship  in  succeeding  days. 

Though  Genius,  rapt  by  zeal  intense, 

Sometimes  can  rise  on  struggling  wings, 

Yet  still,  what  feeble  eloquence 
Is  in  the  grandest  strain  she  sings  ! 

But  we,  who  marvel  as  we  hear 
That  soul  on  its  impassioned  flight, 


112  UNWRITTEN  POETRY. 

Can  only  hold  the  singer  dear 

Who  gives  us  language  e'en  so  slight. 

Oh,  let  us  be  content  to  read 

Within  the  volume  of  our  lives 
That  poetry  of  thought  and  deed 

By  which  our  happiness  survives  — 
That  rhythm  to  whose  solemn  beat 

The  pulse  of  all  mankind  is  stirred 
In  rapture  too  profound  and  sweet 

For  the  divinest  human  word. 

We  have  the  promise  —  all  who  yearn  — 

That  in  the  loftier  age  to  come 
These  o'ercharged  souls  of  ours  shall  learn 

To  be  no  more  constrained  and  dumb; 
But  e'en  the  feeblest  hand  shall  sway 

The  chords  of  life,  and  every  voice. 
Inspired  like  larks  at  break  of  day, 

Shall  make  another  world  rejoice. 


THE    DYING   ACTOR. 

Take  from  his  brow  the  coronet  of  fame. 
Decked  with  the  jewels  of  a  shining-  name  — 
Illusive  tinsel,  such  as  serves  to  blind 
The  pitiful  ambitions  of  mankind. 

• 
This  is  no  mask  ;  he  will  not  rise  again 

o 

To  ape  the  actions  and  desires  of  men  ; 
He  will  not  rise  to  feel  his  labor  o'er  — 
For  he's  himself  in  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Let  fall  the  curtain,  let  the  lights  be  dim  ! 
What's  he  to  earth,  or  what  is  earth  to  him  ? 
Who  of  the  idle  and  inconstant  herd, 
That  thundered  praise  for  every  fiery  word 
Which  shook  his  frame  with  passion's  mimic  rao-e, 
Would  care  to  look  on  this  ungilded  stage, 
And  spend  one  honest  sigh,  one  serious  breath, 
On  the  too-faithful  scenery  of  Death  ? 

113 


114  THE   DYING   AC  TOE. 

Who  of  them  all,  so  lavish  to  admire, 
And  urge  the  heat  of  thought's  unnatural  fire, 
Would  shed  a  drop  of  Mercy's  healing  rain 
Upon  the  feverish  embers  of  his  brain  ? 

He  was  the  puppet  of  a  vacant  hour, 

Who  roused  their  fancies  to  unwonted  power, 

And  thronged  their  minds  with  phantom   shapes  that 

led 

A  wanton  measure  through  the  narrow  head  ! 
Ah,  these  white  lips  do  speak  a  better  part 
Than  ever  masked  the  passions  of  a  heart  ; 
This  unfeigned  suffering,  this  pallid  woe, 
Mocks  the  poor  triumphs  of  dissembling  show, 
And  teaches  truth  which  not  the  art  of  man 
Can  e'er  impress,  and  only  nature  can. 
The  dying  gladiator,  far  from  home, 
Who  sank  in  blood  to  sate  applauding  Rome  ; 
The  panting  Greek  who  sped  the  desperate  race 
Till  bursting  veins  poured  crimson  o'er  his  face  ;    T 
The  bleeding  Spaniard,  for  an  erring  thrust 
Pierced  by  mad  horns  and  trampled  in  the  dust  — 
All  with  stern  fingers  point  to  Pleasure's  throne. 
To  mock  her  with  inventions  of  her  own  ; 


Til E   DYING   ACTOR.  lid 

And  these  hot  lips  she  will  not  stoop  to  hear 
Cry  like  a  trumpet  in  her  heedless  ear  ! 

Oh,  Pleasure,  gaudy  queen  of  blinded  slaves, 
Who  drink  thy  cup  beside  their  wretched  graves, 
Turn  hither  those  lascivious  eyes  of  thine, 
Bright  with  the  madness  of  thy  sensual  wine, 
And  view  these  fleshless  limbs,  these  eyes  that -seem 
Like  caverns  lit  with  but  one  flickering  gleam  ; 
The  pr'ostrate  brow  which  guards  those  earthly  cells 
Where  the  tired  mind  a  few  sad  moments  dwells, 
And  the  spent  lamp  of  genius,  burning  low, 
Reveals  no  pathway  from  these  shades  below  ! 
Think  on  the  souls  that  fall  a  sacrifice 
Upon  the  rotten  hecatombs  of  vice  ; 
Think  on  the  lives  that  all  unseen  expire 
To  feed  thine  altars  with  unholy  fire  : 
And  then  remember,  when  thou  art  most  gay, 
What  hand  shall  snatch  thy  worthless  crown  away. 
And  grind  the  hollow  baubles  of  thy  shame 
Into  the  brutal  dust  from  which  they  came  ! 


DEFEATED. 

Breathe  low,  ye  winds,  breathe  low  ! 
Touch   not  with  your  rude  hands  that  prostrate  form, 
With  the  last  sparks  of  being  faintly  warm  ; 

Breathe  softly,  as  ye  go 

Through  this  deserted  hovel,  where  the  light 
Of  Heaven  makes  ghastlier  the  surrounding  night. 

The  long,  black  buildings  stretch  away  in  line, 

Till  lost  in  the  dim  air; 
And  far  away  the  glimmering  street  lamps  shine  — 

A  blue,  diminished   glare. 

The  shadows,  thick  and  weird, 

Steal  through  their  native  gloom,  with  sluggish  stealth, 
Like  shapeless  ghosts  of   that  departed  wealth 

And  grandeur  which  upreared 

Its  arrogant  pomp  where  now  the  wretched   slaves 
Of  misery  hasten  to  unhallowed  graves. 

116 


DEFEA  TE1\  ll\ 

Tell  me,  ye  winds,  how  oft 
That  half-clothed   form   has  felt  your  bitter  chill, 

While,  on  his  couches  soft 
The  tyrant  Luxury  pleased  Desire  at  will  ; 
While  Pleasure,  in  her  thousand  halls,  grew  sick 

Of  empty,  heartless  mirth, 
As  the  gross,  sensual  air  grew  misty  -  thick 

With  breath  of  soulless  earth. 

Tell  me  how  oft  the  pang 
Of  aching  hunger  cursed  his  honest  toil, 

When  round  about  him  sprang 
Plethoric  harvests  from  the  fertile  soil  ; 
When  the  vain  epicure,  with  senseless  whim, 

Glutted  his  dainty  taste 
With  wines  and  foods,  until  that  soul  grew  dim 

Which  manhood  once  had  graced. 

Tell  me  how  anguish  gnawed 
Within   his  breast,  and  paled   his  wrinkled  face, 

When,  on  life's  pathway  broad, 
He  knew  himself  an  outcast  from  his  race. 

What  secret  thoughts  of  crime 
Surged   in    his  desperate  soul  that  still  \vas  white. 


118  DEFEATED. 

As  the  strong  hand  of  Time 

Pushed  him  still  further  from  the  heaven-touched  height 
Which  he,  with  patient  steps,  had  hoped  to  climb. 

Oh,  bitterest  agony  ! 
How  didst  thou  pierce  his  care-encrusted  life, 

When  gaunt-limbed  Want  set  free 
The  spirits  of  his  children  and  his  wife  ! 


Here  close  his  cheerless  life's  tear-blotted  scroll, — 

One  of  a  million  such  !  — 
And,  since  he  lived  with  slowly-maddening  mind, 

And  suffered  over-much, 

Oh  God,  forgive  the  sin 
That  closed   his  sad  life's  miserable  lease, 

And  he  wTill    find  within 
The  happy  courts  of  Heaven  the  longed-for  peace. 

And  though  these  nerveless  hands  have  ne'er  unfurled 

The  banner  of   success, 
Yet  he,  therefore,  in  Love's  enduring  world, 

Shall  not  be  glad  the  less, 
But  find  a  nobler,  larger  happiness. 


FLOWERS  FROM  THE  BATTLE  FIELD. 

The  tread  of  crowds  in  the  old  grave-yard 

Was  light  and  slow,  with  a  musing  pace. 
There  were  dim-eyed  veterans,  battle-scarred, 

With  the  same  proud  spirit  in  every  face. 
There  were  women,  too,  with  the  scars  of  grief 

That  would  burst  afresh  in  a  frequent  tear, 
And  wondering  children,  the  sole  relief 

Of  the  sorrowful  mothers  bending  near. 

The  glitter  of  arms,  the  measured  tread, 

The  sharp  salute,  and  the  voice  of  prayer, 
The  loving  wreaths  for  the  patriot  dead, 

And  the  grave-voiced  man  with  the  snowy  hair,' 
All,  like  a  vision  of  war-like  days, 

\Vent  calmly  by  through  the  misty  glow. 
And  the  singers  were  chanting  their  solemn  praise 

Of  the  silent  heroes  who  slept  below. 
119 


120          FLO  WEES  FROM  THE  BATTLE  FIELD. 

When  a  lithe,  fair  girl  of  the  Southern  land 

Came  gliding  slow  through  the  rank  and  file, 
With  a  cluster  of  flowers  in  her  trembling  hand, 

And  knelt   by  a  grave  in  the  human  aisle. 
Rich  was  the  mound  with  its  fragrant  gifts; 

The  marble  shaft  at  the  soldier's  head 
Was  crowned  by  offerings  —  flowery  drifts 

Of  amethyst,  purple,  white  and  red. 

A  thousand  eyes,  with  a  wondering  look, 

Turned  full  on    her,  ns  the  music  died, 
And  the  white-haired  minister  closed  his  book 

And  stood  by  the  kneeling  maiden's  side. 
"Hast  thou  a  tribute  for  him  who  lies 

In  a  soldier's  flower-crowned  resting-place  ?"* 
The  girl  raised  upward  her  shining  eyes, 

That  lit  the  bloom  of  her  lovely  face  : 

4tNo  braver  soldier,  no  truer  one, 

Than  moulders  here  in  your  Northern  clime, 
E'er  turned  his  face  to  a  Southern- sun 

To  wait  in  anguish  the  close  of  time. 
Oh,  it  was  pitiful  ;  —  one  so  young, — 

But  he  onlv  smiled  when  I  found  him  there. 


FLOWERS  FROM  THE  BATTLE  FIELD.          121 

And  a  whisper  burst  from  his  parching  tongue 
Of  a  grief  that  was  hard  for  him  to  bear. 

And  I  was  proud  —  but  I  pitied  him  so  — 

Pitied  him  ?  —  Loved  him  !      For  many  a  day, 
Beneath  the  roof  of  his  Southern  foe, 

Dying,  yet  lingering,  he  lay. 
Oh,  he  was  noble,  gentle,  brave, — 

Hero  and  saint  he  seemed  to  me  ; 
And  the  hush  of  the  dreamy  autumn  gave 

His  patience  a  halo  I  wept  to  see. 

He  taught  me  a  life  that  was  truer  than  mine, 

As  I  watched  the  light  of  his  clear  eyes  sink, 
With  flashes  of  glory  that  seemed  divine, 

Down  to  the  gloom  of  our  earthly  brink  ; 
And,  dying,  he  held  in  his  stiffening  grip 

Roses  and  violets,  triple-hued  ; 
And  pressed  them  close  to  his  bloodless  lip  — 

His  life  and  death's  similitude. 

Oh,  let  it  pass  ;  those  clays  are  gone  ;  — 

Yet  still — though  why  I  cannot  tell  — 
Mv  thoughts,  my  prayers,  my  love,  are  drawn 


2  THE  MESSAGE   OF  TI1E  LILY. 

To  that  dear  valley  where  he  fell. 
And,  ere  I   go,  I  only  pray 

To  drop  amid  this  floral  pride 
My  tribute  to  the  better  day  — 

Flowers  from  the  meadow  where  he  died/' 


THE  MESSAGE  OF   THE  LILY. 

TO    A    YOUNG    LADY    WHO    RECEIVED    A    WHITE    LILY    ON 
FEBRUARY     14. 

Some  minds  could  read  the  stars,  't  was  thought  of  old, 
And  trace  Fate's  hand  in  vast  and  fiery  lines  ; 
Heaven's  jeweled  scroll  was  written  o'er  with  signs 

Of  prophecies  and  wonders  manifold, 

By  some  almighty  intellect  unrolled. 

'T  is  thus  that  Love,  the  astrologer,  divines 
In  every  flower  on  which  the  morning  shines 

A  hidden  beauty,  and  a  hope  untold  ! 

God  traced  the  meadows  with  a  golden  pen 
Dipped  in  the  hues  of  sunset  skies  above. 

And  the  same  power  that  shaped  Love's  message  then 
Breathes  in  this  lily  and  your  dreams  thereof  — 

But  vou  have  read,  and  you  can  read  a^ain  ; 

^  ^  O 

For  God  is  love,  and  wrote  the  thoughts  of  Love  ! 

o 


CONSOLATION. 

TO    A    MOTHER    WHO    HAS    LOST    HER    SON. 

Oh,  Love,  how  bitter  are  the  tears 

Which  Death's  stern   sorrow   wrings   from   thee  ! 

But  yet  their  keenest  gall  may  be 
A  solace  for  thine  after  years. 

The  saddest  midnight  of  thy  wroe 
Can  ne'er  eclipse  that  star  divine 
Whose  rays  are  brightest  when  they  shine 

Through  darkness  on  thy  griefs  below. 

Oh,  't  is  a  precious  thought,  and  bears 

The  stamp  of  Heaven,  that  somehow  still 
The  thread  of  God's  benignant  will 

Doth  lead  thee  to  Him,  unawares  ; 

That  when  thou  seemest  most  alone, 

And  farthest  from  thy  fellow  men, 

God's  arm  is  round  about  thee  then, 
And  all  thy  sorrows  are  his  own. 
123 


124  C  0  XS  OLA  TION. 

He  teaches  thy  tear-blinded  eyes 
To  see  in  each  deserted  place 
That  held  zi  dear  but  vanished  face 

A  sacred,  happy  vision  rise. 

He  makes  thy  yearning  soul  to  hear 
In  every  psalm  of  Christian  faith 
A  voice  beyond  the  gates  of  Death, 

That  sings  of  peace,  and  not  of  fear. 

Like  one  who  hath  a  well-loved  friend 
In  some  far  land  to  which  he  goes, 
And  will  not  falter,  since  he  knows 

What  joy  awaits  his  journey's  end, 

So  in  thy  heart  the  fixed  belief 

That  somewhere  all  who  love  shall  meet 
Will  give  thee  wings  whene'er  thy  feet 

Are  struggling  in  the  slough  of  grief. 

'T  is  but  the  journey  of  a  day  — 

A  little  while,  though  seeming  great, 
Ere  he  who  walked  with  thee  of  late 

Will  clasp  thee  in  his  arms  and  say. 


C  ONS  OLA  TIOX.  125 

"  \Vhv,  Love,  the  path  was  not  so  long 
That  thou  hadst  need  to  mourn  and  weep 
Because  God's  purpose  was  so  deep 

And  his  enforcing  hands  so  strong, 

*'  Thou  hadst  not  wept  could st  thou  have  known 

What  immortality  and  peace, 

And  happiness  without  surcease, 
From  sorrow  and  despair  had  grown." 

Thus  will  he  sav,  when,  breast  to  breast, 
In  Heaven's  first  rapture  ye  commune, 
Like  two  sweet  voices  in  one  tune 

Of  everlasting:  love  and  rest. 


THE  CYNIC'S  REVERY. 

Down  the  long  hall  the  glittering  chandeliers 

Diffuse  the  lustre  of  their  pendent  spheres 

O'er  blended  throngs  whose  gliding  footsteps  trace 

Encircling  measures  with  a  buoyant  grace. 

On  snowy  cheeks  the  flush  of  pleasure  glows, 

And  turns  the  bloodless  lily  to  the  rose  ; 

Hearts  beat  to  music,  while  from  lip  and  eye 

The  willing  smile  and  unregretful  sigh 

Speak  with  that  natural  eloquence  of  bliss 

Which  needs  no  language,  save  a  smile  or  kiss  ! 

See  yon  fair  image  of  our  mistress  —  Love  — 
Whose  eyes  outbeam  the  trembling  flames  above  ; 
Whose  supple  form,  bedecked  in  airy  white, 
Floats  with  smooth  motion  —  like  a  dove  in  flight  — 
Among  the  brilliant  windings  of  the  dance, 
While  all  her  soul  goes  forth  at  every  glance. 
Yet,  to  mine  eyes,  her  beauty  does  but  .seem 
Like  one  pure  lily  on  a  shining  stream, 
Sailing  majestic  down  the  subtle  tide, 

m 


THE  CYNIC'S  RE  VERY.  1-7 

While  morning  sunlight  gilds  its  dewy  pride. 

And  knows  the  lily  what  rough  torrents  break 

Far  from  the  quiet  of  its  native  lake  — 

What  foamy  cataracts  thundering  far  away 

Shall  rend  the  petals  of  their  fragile  prey  ? 

Nay,  now,  such  owrlish  prophecies  of  doom 

Are  but  the  shadows  of  their  parent  gloom  ; 

A  sombre  mind  can  darken  all  that's  gay, 

And  unreal  terrors  haunt  the  brightest  day. 

Yet,  for  a  moment,  'mid  the  festive  throng 

Methought  a  shape  passed  mournfully  along, 

With  languid  step,  clasped  hands,  and  loosened  hair, 

Eyes  rilled  with  all  the  meaning  of  despair, 

Drooped  head,  and  every  piteous  aspect  known 

To  maiden  sorrow,  weeping  and  alone  ; 

A  shadowy  wreck  of  loveliness  and  youth, 

Bereft  of  honor,  love  —  but  not  of  truth  ! 

Ah,  miserable  truth  !  what  power  thou  hast 
To  conjure  up  a  future  from  the  past  ; 
To  read  beneath  life's  smoothly-written  scroll 
The  voiceless  records  of  an  erring  soul  ! 
But,  ah,  how  few  of  such  as  these  discern 
Thy  sullen  presence  wheresoe'er  they  turn  ; 


?8  THE  CYNIC'S  EEVEHY. 

Or,  if  by  conscience  yet  compelled  to  see, 
Will  quit  the  feast  to  rise  and  follow  thee  ! 
How  few  assay  the  spurious  bauble,  joy, 
And  pluck  the  treasure  from  its  coarse  alloy  ! 
Alas  for  him  who  gives  his  wishes  reign; 
Where  passion  urges  angels  plead  in  vain. 

Oh,  happier  spirits,   throned  in  quiet  nooks, 

Amid  the  world  of  nature  and  of  books, 

Who  find  in   lofty  thoughts  and  gracious  deeds 

All  that  the  soul,  and  all  the  body  needs  ; 

Who,  if  by  chance  from  social  hours  confined, 

Can  summon  worlds  and    nations  from  the  mind 

Ye  are  the  souls  on  whom  the  right  depends 

To  fathom  wrongs  and  compass  mighty  ends  ; 

Ye  are  the  true,  the  infinitely  blessed, 

Calm  in  your  actions,  dreamless  in  your  rest  ! 

No  feverish  passions,  never  satisfied, 

Beckon  and  thrust  you  from  contentment's  side  ; 

No  artificial   pleasures  ye  require 

To  sate  the  temperate  hunger  of  desire, 

But  still  for  you  earth's  natural  joys  suffice 

To  paint  the  world  with  hues  of  Paradise  ! 

Ye  never  sit  in  ashes  and  in  tears 


THE   CYNIC'S  RE  VERY.  129 

Amid  the  ruins  of  unfruitful  years, 

And  weigh  against  a  poor  and  vanished  gain 

The  heavy  balance  of  remorse  and  pain. 

Is  't  not  a  pity  that  so  fair  a  flower 

Should  waste  its  bloom  to  gratify  an  hour  ? 

But  who  will  say,  "  Mine  eyes  to-night  have  seen 

An  angel's  arm  enclasp  a  libertine  ?  " 

'T  were  all  in  vain  ;  such  thoughts  as  these  are  best 

To  moulder  in  the  silence  of  the  breast. 

Mankind  brooks  not  that  any  hand  should  take 

The  sheltering  roses  from  the  sleeping  snake. 

Then  peace  be  with  you,  God's  divinest  scheme, 
Unsullied  girlhood,  man's  divinest  dream  — 
Your  native  Heaven  defend  !     You  will  not  know 
What  venomed  monster  coils  its  folds  below 
Until,  perhaps,  your  reckless  footsteps  stray 
Across  the  flowers  that  cluster  on  your  wav, 
And  the  vile  serpent,  from  its  rosy  nest. 
Springs  to  your  heart  —  let  misery  tell  the  rest. 


INNOCENCE. 

What  shall  I  call  thee,  Innocence  ?     A  flower. 
Clothed  in  the  chastest  robe  of  virgin  hue, 
And  sparkling  with  the  jewels  of  the  dew, 
That  drinks  the  light  of  morning's  radiant  hour  ? 
Or  else  a  bird,  low-swinging  from  a  spray 
Of  verdant  boughs,  and  warbling  to  the  ear 
Of  dreaming  summer  an  enraptured  lay 
Of  happy  freedom,  sunny  atmosphere, 
And  the  low  music  of  the  drowsy  day  ? 

Or  shall  I  sing  thee  as  a  gentle  maid, 
Fenced  from  the  world  by  Love's  protecting  arms, 
As  white  in  thought,  as  blameless  in  her  charms, 
As  e'er  in  earth's  gross  vesture  was  arrayed  ?  — 
A  vestal  of  the  hearth,  whose  life  is  seen 
So  heaven-like  in  unsullied  loveliness 
That  earthly  shadows  never  intervene 
To  mar  the  purity  of  her  caress, 
Nor  darken  glances  trustfully  serene  ? 
130 


INNOCENCE.  131 

Or,  rather,  shall  I  paint  thee  as  a  child, 

Laughing  with  bright  and  natural  sounds  of  glee-; 

Soft  hands  and  yielding  lips  that  seem  to  be 

A  sweet  rebuke  to  hands  and  lips  defiled  ; 

Clear  eyes,  unconscious  of  the  lustrous  gleam 

That  sparkles  gayly,  tremulously  bright, 

In  their  calm  depths,  as  when  the  modest  beam 

Of  evening's  star  reveals  its  wavering:  lig-ht 

o        o 

In  some  still  spring  or  smooth  and  limpid  stream  ? 

Xay,  none  of  these — the  flower  will  lose  its  bloom; 

The  bird  fall  earthward  in  the  wintry  blast ; 

The  purest  maid  may  rue  her  faith  at  last, 

And  childhood  laugh,  unconscious  of  its  doom  ; 

But  thou  art  panoplied  with  warlike  mail 

Of  adamant ;  no  powder  can  overthrow 

Thy  shield  invincible,  or  make  thee  quail 

At  force,  or  treachery,  or  the  sting  of  woe; 

Thine  arms  were  forged  in  Heaven,  and  will  not  fail 


RUPERT  ALMAYNE. 

The  leaves  drift  yellow  about  thy  door, 

Rupert  Almayne  ; 

As  rich  as  the  golden  and  treasured  store 
That  will  gleam  and  glitter  for  thee  no  more, 

Rupert  Almayne. 

The  gold  that  showers  from  Nature's  mint, 

Rupert  Almayne, 
Has  no  shadow  to  mar  its  tint, 
And  hides  in  its  splendor  no  subtle  hint 

Of  a  secret  stain. 

Hark  to  the  wind  !     It  is  strangely  drear, 

Rupert  Almayne  ; 

'T  is  the  mournful  voice  of  the  dying  year. 
But  only  of  sorrow,  and  not  of  fear, 

Rupert  Almayne. 
132 


RUPERT  ALMAYNE.  133 

'T  is  not  so  utterly  broken  and  sad, 

So  full  of  pain, 

As  the  voice  of  love  thou  couldst  have  had, 
Whose  echo  returns  to  drive  thee  mad, 

Rupert  Almayne. 

Why  dost  thou  start  and  tremble  so, 

Rupert  Almayne  ? 

The  passing  wind  tolls  weird  and  slow  ; 
'T  is  the  voice  that  is  calling  thee  to  go 

From  earth's  domain. 


Thy  shadow  has  darkened  the  world  with  gloom. 

Rupert  Almayne  ; 

But  there  rises  up  from  the  open  tomb 
A  vaster  shadow  of  death  and  doom 

To  cloud  thy  brain. 

Think,  as  thou  goest,  how  many  a  hearth 

Has  felt  thy  bane, 

But  yet  will  blossom  with  hope  and  mirth, 
And  breathe  no  sigh  when  thou  lea  vest  earth, 

Rupert  Almayne. 


134  RUPERT  ALMAYNE. 

This  is  the  end  of  thy  toiling  here, 

Rupert  Almayne  ; 

Oh,  if  the  wealth  that  has  cost  so  dear 
Could  purchase  for  thee  one  honest  tear, 

'T  were  not  in  vain. 

Loose  thy  hands  from  the  golden  rod  — 

Thy  seal  of  reign  — 
That  made  the  people  to  fear  thy  nod 
As  they  were  slaves  and  thou  wert  a  god, 

Rupert  Almayne  ! 

What  is  it  the  solemn  night- wind   saith, 

Rupert  Almayne  ? 
It  bears  a  dirge  in  its  hollow  breath, 
A  wailing  sound  from  the  fields  of   death, 

Like  a  funeral  strain. 

And  the  poor  will  sigh  as  it  sweepeth  past 

With  its  gusty  train  ; 

But  they  will  not  know  that  the  warning  b  last 
Hurries  to  judgment  and  justice  at  last 

Rupert  Almayne. 


HIS  SOUL  IS  MARCHING  OX." 

CHILD  : 

"  Father,  the  drums  beat  loud  and  long, 
But,  deeper  than  their  loudest  beat, 
The  muffled  thunder  of  a  song 
That  times  the  tread  of  martial  feet 
Peals  up  the  vistas  of  the  street  ! 

"  A  thousand  torches  toss  and  flare 
Like  fiery  pennons,  streaming  bright 
Against  the  sombre  walls  of  night, 
As  if  the  dusky  hosts  that  bear 
Those  flaming  banners  would  affright 
The  very  shadows  from  the  air. 

"  Oh,  father,  would  that  thou  couldst  see 
This  mighty  city,  decked  with  fire, 
That  flings  about  the  loftiest  spire 

135 


136  "  HIS  S  0  UL   IS  MA  E  Gil  IXG  0 X. ' ' 

The  glow  of  this  festivity  ! 
Far  as  my  straining  eyes  discern, 
With  diamond  lights  the  windows  burn. 
And  every  arbor,  walk  and  tree, 
And  terrace,  where  the  people  throng, 
Gives  back  the  flash,  the  cheer,  the  song, 
Of  some  great  victory  !  " 

FATHER   :  

"  Ay,  child,  my  memory  well  supplies 
The  absent  witness  of  my  eyes  ; 
It  only  needs  yon  martial  strain, 
That  ebbs  and  swells  and  dies  away. 
To  kindle  every  sluggish  vein 
And  paint  a  picture  in  my  brain 
Of  Victory's  jubilant  array, 
That  greeted  Freedom's  natal  day 
With  that  exultant  song. 

"  Oh,  pasan  of  the  true  and  brave  ! 
We  sang  it  'round  the  soldier's  grave 
Who  died  to  conquer  wrrong  ; 
We  sang  it  when  the  camp-fire  shed 


SOUL   IS  MARCHING  ON."  137 

Its  softened  aureole  of  red 

On  many  a  rugged  form  ; 

We  heard  it  ring  when  flame  and  lead 

Belched  through  the  battle's  lurid  storm, 

When  heroes  stood  and  heroes  fell 

To  glut  with  blood  and  groans  and  tears 

The  fiend  of  war's  insatiate  hell, 

And  seal  the  peace  of  future  years. 

•'  We  sang  it  in  the  Northern  pines  ; 
It  floated  down  the  rebel  lines  — 
They  heard  it,  and  they  knew  too  well 
That  the  old  spirit  of  the  dead 
The  boldest  front  of  battle  led, 
And  where  the  tempest  seemed  to  swell 
With  loudest  thunder,  deadliest  fire, 
'T  was  there  to  strengthen  and  inspire  ! 

"  And  when  our  wounded  ranks,  beneath 
The  shattered  stars  and  stripes  we  bore, 
Turned  home  to  peace  and  life  once  more, 
With  sabre  buried  in  the  sheath, 
Methought  that  song,  from  sea.  to  sea, 
Burst  frpm  a  happy  people's  tongue, 


11  HIS  SOUL   IS  MARCHING    ON.  " 

Until  its  music  seemed  to  be 
The  one  vast  chord  of  jubilee 
Wherewith  the  joyous  nation  rung. 

"  Ay,  let  the  people  sing  it  now  ! 

The  veteran  will  renew  his  prime  ; 

The  patriot  of  the  later  time 

Will  know  why  crime  and  hatred  bow 

To  that  unconquerable  soul 

Which  marches  still  with  sword  of  light 

Where'er  the  wheels  of  progress  roll, 

And  leads  the  foremost  van  of  right  ! 

"Ah,  boy,  there  is  no  sound  so  grand, 

None  has  such  music  for  my  ear, 

As  when  across  this  mighty  land 

A  people's  voice,  in  song  and  cheer, 

Pours  like  a  vast,  resistless  tide, 

On  whose  o'erwhelming  surges  ride, 

In  one  triumphant  bark, 

Love,  Justice,  Knowledge,  side  by  side, 

Out  of  the  danger-haunted  dark, 

Into  the  light  of  nobler  days. 

But  on  that  strong,  exultant  f\ood 


"HIS  SOUL  IS  MARCHING    (XV."  139 

There  is  no  tinge  of  martyr-blood, — 
There  lies  no  dead  beneath  those  waves. 
To  rise  like  spectres  from  their  graves 
At  every  deeper  note  that  plays 
About  the  hidden  depths  of  thought  ! 
No  froth  of  passion,  deadly  white, 
Crowns  the  last  billow  of  the  song  ; 
Its  poised,  majestic  crest  has  caught 
A  ray  of  Heaven's  approving  light, 
And,  ebbing  earthward,  sweeps  along 
The  old,  dead  shells  of  vanished  wrong 
Into  the  ocean  of  the  right!" 


LINES 

SUGGESTED     BY     THE     ATTEMPTED     ASSASSINATION    OF 
PRESIDENT    GARFIELD. 

No  matter  how  the  tides  of  life 
Seethe  o'er  the  rocks  and  shoals  of  strife  ; 
No  matter  how  the  storms  of  hate 
Burst  on  the  humble  and  the  great, — 
There's  still  a  peace  below  them  all, 
Howe'er  their  fury  rise  and  fall. 

The  mists  of  calumny  and  spite 
May  dim  the  truth's  exalting  light  ; 
The  windy  blast  of  hollow  reeds 
May  drown  the  voice  of  manly  deeds, 
Yet  there's  emotion  too  profound 
For  plummets  of  the  tongue  to  sound. 
140 


LINES.  141 

A  mighty  nation,  like  the  sea, 

In  treacherous,  shallow  spots  will  be 

Forever  lashed  to  bubbling  foam, 

That  drifts  where'er  the  wind  may  roam  ; 

But  in  the  people's  broader  heart 

Un fathomed  calms  lie  deep  apart. 

Upon  that  ocean's  loyal  breast, 
Bark  of  our  country,  sail  at  rest, 
Bearing  upon  thy  solemn  way 
The  life  for  which  all  patriots  pray, 
Till  in  some  harbor,  not  remote, 
Thy  pennons  thankfully  shall  float. 

Around  his  prostrate  form  are  furled 
The  drooping  banners  of  the  world  ; 
And  each  o'erladen  breath  of  time 
Whispers  the  hope  of  every  clime. 
The  sympathy  of  great  and  good 
For  one  of  equal  brotherhood. 

Full  in  the  noon  of  manhood's  youth, 
Beloved  by  all  who  love  the  truth, 
Peer  to  the  wise,  the  learned,  the  just, 


142  LINES. 

A  nation's  promise,  pride  and  trust, 
About  him  shines,  through  joy  or  tears, 
The  glory  of  a  hundred  years. 

The  new- wreathed  laurel  on  his  brow 
Can  only  be  the  greener  now  ; 
'T  is  watered  by  the  tender  clew 
Of  all  that  makes  us  strong  and  true, 
And  burgeons  richly  in  a  day 
With  everlasting  leaves  of  bay . 

A  nation  at  its  chieftain's  sid  e 
Lingers  with  sorrow,  yet  with  pride, 
And,  linked  in  heart  by  woe  and  weal, 
Knows  how  sublime  it  is  to  feel 
The  lofty  kinship  that  can  grace 
Whate'er  in  man  is  poor  and  base. 

Yet  not  to  him  alone  we  owe 

The  purest  tribute  men  bestow, 

But  lay  sincerely  at  her  feet 

Who  makes  his  greatness  so  complete, 

The  highest  meed  for  such  a  life  — 

Man's  reverence  for  a  noble  wife. 


143 


Behold,  in  these  two  are  combined 
The  attributes  of  soul  and  mind 
Whereon  the  pillars  of  our  land, 
Broad-based  and  firm,  securely  stand, 
And  with  foundations  such  as  they 
Our  freedom  cannot  sink  away. 


AWE. 

There's  a  spirit  that  comes  with  the  eve, 
And  departs  with  the  dawn  of  the  day 
And  whatever  that  spirit  doth  say 

My  heart  is  fain  to  believe. 

I  have  said  in  the  prime  of  the  noon, 
"  The  night  and  the  day  are  the  same  — 
The  difference  but  of  a  name  ;  — 

Instead  of  the  sun,  the  moon. 

"And  the  heart  is  resting  in  sleep, 

While  the  shadows  that  seem  to  crouch. 
Are  but  drapery  over  her  couch, 

As  she  lies  in  slumber  deep." 

But  when  the  rose  of  the  West 
Has  followed  after  the  sun, 
And  the  fall  of  the  dew  has  begun 

To  moisten  the  forest's  crest, 
144 


A  WE.  145 

Then  a  spirit  glides  from  the  dome, 
And  fills  the  ambient  space 
With  the  glow  of  his  unseen  face  — 

With  the  light  of  his  radiant  home . 

When  the  gleam  of  the  stars  combine 
With  the  cold  moon's  vivid  sheen, 
I  have  heard  —  nay,  almost  seen  — 

The  words  of  a  thought  divine. 

They  whisper  of  things  sublime  ; 
Of  the  endless  vistas  of  light, 
Where  the  angels  are  treading  the  height 

That  't  is  hard  for  a  mortal  to  climb. 

They  whisper  of  thy  my  slopes 
In  the  gardens  of  Paradise, 
Where  the  victors  o'er  folly  and  vice 

Are  singing  their  finished  hopes. 

A  solemn  and  masterful  awe 

Falls  over  the  conquered  mind, 

Like  invisible  chains  that  bind 
With  a  strong  and  mysterious  law. 


146  A  WE. 

'T  is  a  faintly  echoing  chime 

From  the  songs  of  the  peopled  vast, 
Songs  of  a  heavenly  past, 

And  the  full  completion  of  time, 

Sung  by  the  rythmic  spheres, 
And  the  grand  celestial  throng  ! 
'T  is  a  thrill  of  a  noble  song 

That  is  not  for  human  ears. 


GARFIELD. 

Now  hangs  a  heavy  shadow  o'er  the  land, 
Thrown  vast  and  dark  from  Death's  afflicting  hand, 
And  round  the  earth  a  sombre  veil  is  spread, 
In  universal  mourning  for  the  dead. 

So  large  a  grief  is  this,  wherein  we  feel 

Emotion  sorrow  only  can  reveal, 

And,  lifted  up  to  a  prophetic  height, 

See,  through  the  darkness,  the  immortal  light. 

The  soldier,  scholar,  patriot,  statesman,  sage, 

Whom  nations  ranked  a  giant  of  his  age  ; 

The  man  we  loved  more  closely  than  we  knew, 
Has  bid  his  country  and  the  world  adieu. 

Death  can  but  write  on  monumental  scrolls 
What  life  has  graven  on  a  million  souls  — 
A  nation's  love,  the  epitaph  sublime 
That  shines  eternal  on  the  front  of  time. 
147 


143  GAEFIELD. 

It  is  enough  that  o'er  his  martyred  clay 
All  patriot  hearts  will  drop  a  wreath  to-day, 
And  plant  with  flowers  the  garden  of  his  tomb, 
To  make  its  glory  greater  than  its 


More  than  he  was  no  man  need  ask  to  be  — 

As  good  as  great,  and  both  in  high  degree  ; 

He  knew  to  live  but  one  consistent  part, 

And  matched  a  statesman's  with  a  Christian's  heart. 

He  has  not  perished  who  bequeathed  to  earth 
The  fruitful  memory  of  so  rich  a  worth, 
And,  in  his  viewless  passage,  leaves  behind 
The  priceless  mantle  of  so  great  a  mind. 


THROUGH   THE  GATE. 

There  is  more  happiness  in  the  death  of  soir.e 
Than  in  the  lives  of  many. 

I  recall 

How  once,  upon  a  summer  afternoon, 
A  Christian  fell  asleep. 

The  very  air 

For  reverence  hushed  its  music-laden  breath  ; 
The  leaves,  that  whispered  to  each  other,  ceased  , 
The  winged  voices  of  the  earth  were  still  ;  — 
As  when  a  harp  whose  many  strings  do  throb 
Melodiously  beneath  the  master's  hand 
Is  quieted  into  a  solemn  pause, 
As  sweet  as    music,  so  that  mighty  harp 
Whose  restless  chords  had  played  all  day   for  man 
The  fragments  of  old  Paradisal  hymns, 
Resolved  itself  to  a  harmonious  peace. 

There  was  no  gloom  —  the  sunlight,  stealing  slant 
Between  the  parted  window-draperies, 
149 


150  THROUGH  THE  GATE. 

Traced  on  the  wall  —  as  if  an  angel's  hand 

O 

Had  written  there  in  golden  characters 
The  happy  message  of  the  outer  world. 

The  heart  of  Nature,  calm  and  beautiful, 

Expressed,  methought,  a  kind  of  tenderness 

For  her  whose  eyes,  of  half  their  lustre  robbed 

By  the  departing  soul,  looked  out  and  saw, 

As  in  a  dream,  our  little  company, 

Regarding,  through  the  tears  we  could  not  check, 

The  lamp  of  her  existence,  once  so  bright, 

Paling  and  glimmering  down  the  vaults   of  Death. 

She  knew  each  face,  and  smiled  in  every  one; 
She  touched  each  hand  with  farewell  tenderness 
That  gave,  as  't  were,  an  energy  divine 
To  the  enfeebled  clasp.     A  touch  like  that 
Might  win  a  soul  to  Heaven  —  so  strong  is  love, 
The  magnet  of  the  universe,  that  draws 
The  yearning  spirit  to  the  breast  of  God. 

Half- moving  on  her  pillow,  she  essayed 

In  vain  to  speak  ;  but,  by  the  wandering  gaze 


THROUGH  THE  GATE.  151 

And  fingers  groping  out,  we  understood 

That  one  should  read,  whereat  the  book  she  loved 

Was  brought  and  laid  beside  her,  and  a  voice, 

Unshaken,  like  the  rest,  but  full  of  faith, 

And  rich  in  harmony,  repeated  o'er  — 

Half  from  the  pages,  half  from  memory  — 

The  lofty  and  triumphant  eloquence 

That  burst  inspired  from  the  apostle's  heart 

To  strengthen,  comfort  and  exalt  mankind. 

Oh,  infinite  Book  !     Thy  depths  are  like  the  sea, 

Fathomless  and  unfathomed  ;   wonderful 

In  beauty  ;  glorious  in  magnificence  ; 

Profound  in  peace,  and  in  sublimity 

Most  terrible,  beyond  the  heights  of  thought  ; 

God's  sunshine  kisses  thee  ;  His  lightnings  flame, 

His  thunders  roll,  through  all  thy  moods  of  power  ; 

The  whispers  of  Omnipotence  pervade 

Thy  deep  and  sacred  mysteries  ;  thy  waves 

Are  balm  and  bitterness,  repose  and  storm, 

Despair  and  hope  —  we  tremble,  yet  are  glad. 

The  awful  spaces  of  eternity 

O'er-arch  thee,  and  innumerable  lives 

Shed  o'er  thee,  like  the  everlasting  stars, 

The  benedictions  of  another  world. 


152  THROUGH  THE  GATE. 

How  often  had  she  laved  her  heart  in  thee, 

To  cool  its  earthly  fevers,  and  renew 

Her  confidence,  her  patience,  love  and  faith, 

From  their  exhaustless  source  !  for  she  excelled 

In  every  attribute  which  makes  a  woman 

The  intermediate  angel  of  our  race. 

She  reckoned  all  the  sufferings  of  this  life 

As  nothing  to  the  glory  unrevealed. 

And  never  dreamed  to  barter  for  a  bauble 

Her  spiritual  riches.     Thus  it  was 

That  when  her  mortal  burden  dropped  and  sank 

Into  the  abyss  of  oblivion, 

She  needed  not,  like  miserable  souls 

Whose  all  is  in  this  perishable  frame, 

To  weep  its  loss,  but  radiantly  clothed 

In  incorruptible  habiliments  — 

The  bridal  garments  of  celestial  love  — 

She  joined  the  beatific  multitude 

Which  moves,  rejoicing,  through  the  gates  of  pearl, 

There  to  sit  down  at  the  Redeemer's  feet 

With  Abraham  and  Isaac  and  with  Jacob, 

And  know  how  great  a  bliss  it  is  to  sow 

And  reap  the  fruits  of  immortality. 


THROUGH  THE  GATE.  153 

Methought  the  presence  of  divinity 
Folded  us  in  its  shadow,  as  the  words 
Dropped  from  the  reader's  fervid  lips  like  dew 
To  soothe  the  ache  and  burning  of  our  hearts. 

Supreme  enthusiasm,  yet  subdued, 

Winged  with  new  courage  our  imperfect  faith  ; 

For  never  shall  I  see  again  on  earth 

So  much  of  death  in  life,  so  much  of  light 

Break  through  this  fleshly  veil,  as  in  that  hour. 


UNDER  THE  MOON. 

Oh,  boys,  wherever  you  are  to-night 
Beneath  the  arch  of  this  virgin  light  — 
In  the  home  love,  by  the  shrine  of  prayer. 
On  the  prairie's  wilds,  in  the  city's  glare, 
In  the  halls  of  art,  or  the  siren's  den, 
With  the  lures  of  vice,  or  the  scholar's  pen  — 
Whate'er  the  phantom  of  life  you  pursue, 
One  fancy  I  have  that  is  faithful  to  you. 

The  sorrows  of  many  a  by-gone  year 
Seem  mingled  and  lost  in  the  shadows  here, 
But  the  noblest  pleasures  and  thoughts  we  knew 
Like  spirits  throng  in  the  dusky  blue, 
As  indistinct  as  the  moonlight  falls 
Over  the  distant  horizon  walls, 
Yet  each  ethereally  bright, 
Clear,  warm  and  pure  as  the  mellow  night. 
154 


UNDER  THE 

Thev  seem  a  part  of   the  moonlight  space, 
•And  every  beam  has  a  human  face, 
That  comes  and  goes  on  the  silver  stream 
That  bears  the  world  in  a  quiet  dream. 
In  that  vast  silence  methinks  they  part, 
To  seek  each  one  a  kindred  heart. 
And   bear  to  the  musing  and  yearning  breast 
The  message  of  a  divine  unrest. 

The  moon  lies  deep  in  the  tranquil  lake, 
And  the  ripples,  like  scattered  jewels,  break, 
Till  the  merry  flash  of  a  sunny  eye 
Gleams  from  the  water  that  murmurs  by; 
The  night-hawk* wheels  with  his  drowsy  call 
Betwixt  the  stars  and  the  forest  wall, 
And  the  muffled  echoes  repeat  once  more 
Your  jocund  voices  from  shore  to  shore. 

The  woods,  like  royal  mourners,  shed 
Their  rustling  tresses  of  saffron  and  red, 
And  your  footsteps  dance,  as  they  did  of  old, 
Across  a  carpet  of  shrifted   gold. 
Tn?  trees  bend  down  with  a  swelling  sigh 
To  whisper  of  summers  that  never  die, 


156  UN  DEE  THE  310  ON. 

And  the  softened  tone  of  your  graver  mood 
Breathes  through  the  peopled  solitude. 

Old  friends,  and   faithful  to  death,  are  these  : 
The  moon,  the  lake,  and  the  stately  trees  ; 
And  though  beneath  other  stars  you  gaze 
On  heaven's  bewildering,  glittering  maze  — 
By  other  waters  though  you  may  stand 
To  hear  the  ripples  along  the  sand, — 
Yet  Nature's  voices  will  rise  to  bear 
The  same  old  message  by  earth  and  air. 

Ah,  never  believe  that  Time  can  bestow 
A  greater  measure  of  heaven  belo\v 
Than  alone  in  the  midst  of  your  thoughts  to  recall 
No  thought  whose  dark  presence  can  sadden  them  all. 
That  such  be  your  lot  is  the  theme  of  my  prayer 
Cast  out  on  the  breast  of  the  listening  air, 
While  I  stand  at  the  feet  of  the  pensive  night, 
Under  the  arch  of  this  virgin  light. 


IX  MEMORIAM. 

When  greatness  falls,  which  states  and  empires  mourn, 

A  shock  throughout  the  shuddering  world  is  borne, 

As  if  our  dull  machinery  of  clay 

Flashed  Heaven's  own  fire  along  its  rusty  way, 

And  winged  the  sound  of  that  ethereal  flame 

With  the  the  sad  utterance  of  a  single  name. 

Garfield  !  —  our  hero,  martyr,  yea  —  and  saint 
Whom  lavish  sorrowr  vainly  strives  to  paint, 
If  admiration  should  o'erleap  her  end, 
And  love  exalt  thee  more  than  she  intend, 
What  power  shall  set  the  limit  of  thy  praise, 
Save  the  cold  censure  of  remoter  days  ? 
Then  may  men  say,  "His  faults  were  such  and  such  — 
His  virtues  have  been  blazoned  overmuch." 
But  in  the  glow  and  impulse  of  the  time 
Thy  faults  are  shadows  in  a  torrid  clime. 
Enthusiasm's  but  the  name  of  Tru'ih 
Ere  she  has  lost  the  ardor  of  he:  youth, 

157 


158  IN  XSMOSIAlf. 

And  't  is  not  oft  that  she  will  stoop  to  weigh 
The  words  affection  is  inspired  to  say. 

Yet  it  is  not  the  pity  of  thy  death 

That  warms  to  fire  the  eulogistic  breath  — 

Death  cannot  make,  nor  can  it  uncreate  ; 

'T  was  life  that  gave  thee  title  to  be  great. 

Beside  thy  bed  a  tearful  people  stood, 

And  watched  thee  waste  in  suffering  martyrhood 

Till  the  last  gleam  of  life's  uncertain  spark, 

Died  from  the  sight,  and  left  a  nation  dark. 

They  saw  thee  still,  in  every  phase  of  life  — 

The  gentle  husband  of  as  true  a  wife, 

The  Christian  father,  the  chivalrous  son  — 

Till  the  last  duty  of  thy  race  was  done. 

Ah,  who  that  looked  upon  thy  final  sleep 

Could  e'er  forbid  his  sorrowing  eyes  to  weep  — 

Feeling  how  strangely,  eloquently  grand 

Was  the  last  touch  of  life's  enfeebled  hand  ! 

Upon  thy  face,  in  that  tremendous  hour, 
Could  well  be  read  the  impress  of  thy  power, 
And  in  the  aspect  of  each  wrinkled  line 
Remained  some  vestige  of  the  flame  divine  ; 


Z-V  MEMOSIAM.  159 

As  when  the  sun  is  lost  below  the  hill, 
A  flush  of  glory  tints  the  twilight  still. 
Then  could  they  trace,  as  from  an  angel's  pen, 
The  massive  genius,  ne'er  to  rule  again  ; 
The  moving  speech,  the  intellect  profound, 
On  virtue  based,  and  by  that  virtue  crowned  ; 
Patience  unmoved  by  agony  or  wrong  ; 
An  iron  faith  to  suffer  and  be  strong. 
Unalteied  still,  by  Providence  or  fate, 
It  was  thy  very  nature  to  be  great. 

Alas  !  how  few  has  God  upraised  like  thee, 
Whose  soul  and  mind  were  balanced  in  degree, 
Who,  though  thou  hadst  the  laurels  of  the  race, 
Let  not  ambition  lure  thee  to  disgrace. 

Nor  shall  the  worshipped  heroes  of  the  past 
Be  named  with  thee  in  glory's  trumpet  blast. 
What  heart  e'er  loved  the  Caesars  of  the  world, 
Whose  ruthless  banners  tyranny  unfurled  ; 
Who  stained  the  earth  and  crimsoned  every  flood 
To  leave  mankind  a  legacy  of  blood  ? 
But  thou,  oh,  nobler  conqueror,  canst  afford 
A  better  witness  than  a  warrior's  sword, 


160  IN  UEXOB1AM, 

Although  thou  stood'st  in  freedom's  foremost  rank 

o 

When  slavery  to  its  just  perdition  sank. 

Without  a  monarch's  power,  a  trickster's  art, 

Thou  hast  subdued  the  hate  of  every  heart. 

Thy    hand,    stretched    out    from    Death's    approaching 

gloom , 

Bowed  e'en  thy  foemen  to  lament  thy  doom, 
And  joined  the  links  of  love's  dissevered  chain 
In  the  last  travail  of  thy  fatal  pain. 
When  Caesar  fell,  scant  rev'rence  was  his  due  ; 
But  thy  dread  fall  a  sorrowing  world  cloth  rue. 

O,  great  Departed  !     Wheresoe'er  thy  soul 
In  loftier  spheres  hath  gained  a  new  control, 
Methinks,  whate'er  thou  gain'st  of  power  or  bliss, 
Full  oft  thou'lt  turn  from  other  worlds  to  this, 
And  joy  to  hear,  amid  that  kindred  throng, 
Thy  name  roll  heavenward  in  a  nation's  song  ; 
And,  for  the  sacred  guerdon  of  thy  pain. 
To  know  Columbia  has  not  wept  in  vain. 


MINNETONKA. 

There  is  a  lake  embosomed  in  the  West  — 
Set  like  a  jewel  in  the  billowy  folds 
Of  Nature's  green,  luxurious  drapery. 
Here,  in  midsummer,  when  the  stately  woods 
That  skirt  the  sinuous  borders  of  the  lake 
Are  greenest  ;  when  the  lightest  breezes  fan 
The  leafy  banks  that  top  the  lofty  trees, 
And  fret  the  buoyant  surface  of  the  wraves 
To  foamy  ripples — here  the  wearied  eye, 
The  labored  footstep,  and  the  troubled  mind, 
Love  best  to  seek  among  secluded  haunts 
The  rest  denied  them  by  the  vexing  world. 
Here  Nature's  fingers  press  most  tenderly 
On  grateful  foreheads,  and  her  warmest  kiss 
Consoles  the  chafed,  impatient  heart  of  care  ; 
Here  she  pursues  her  own  harmonious  thoughts, 
And  links  her  fancies  in  a  thousand  charms, 
Not  overwrought,  and  gaudv  of  device, 

161 


162  MINKS  TONKA. 

Like  man's  inventions,  surfeiting  the  eye, 

But  like  the  unconscious  beauty  of  a  child, 

As  full  of  innocence  as  loveliness, 

That  wins  a  smile,  although  we  scarce  know  why. 

Yea,  this,  oh,  Nature,  is  thy  favorite  shrine, 
Sacred  to  thee  !     But  who  of  all  that  trace 
Their  lingering  footprints  on  these  yielding  sands, 
And  look  with  careless  laughter  in  thy  face, 

Can  teach  the  music  to  another  heart 

• 
That  fills  his  own,  arouse  an  absent  friend 

To  admiration,  sympathy,  and  love, 
For  what  enchants  him  here  ? 

If  I  could  paint, 

In  language  rich  and  eloquent  as  thine, 
And  sing  in  thy  melodious  cadences 
Thine  attributes  of  quiet  loveliness, 

The  thoughts  of  those  whose  eyes  have  looked  on  thee 
Would  throng  these  shores,  and  every    thought    would 

bear 

A  silent  witness  to  my  humble  praise. 
If  Fancy,  like  a  bird  whose  flight  descends 
And  lightly  meets  thy  waters,  could  but  dip 
Her  heavenward  wings  into  thy  healing  breast, 


MINNE  TO  NKA .  163 

And  steal  from  thence  invigorating  balm 
To  cool  the  fever  of  a  mind  distressed, 
Refresh  the  fainting  lives  that  drag  along 
Their  endless  progress  over  dusty  ways, 
And  quench  the  thirst  of  parching  misery, 
How  many  a  soul  would  lift  to  Heaven  again 
Its  hopeless  vision,  by  that  touch  inspired 
To  new  existence,  like  a  drooping  flower 
That  feels  the  fresh  baptism  of  the  dew  ! 

Oh,  such  is  the  divinity  of  song  ! 

And  such  his  purpose  who  aspires  to  sing 

To  other  souls  of  what  they  feel  themselves  ; 

For  Nature  sings  to  all  mankind  of  peace  — 

Peace  and  good-will  —  and  one  continual  song 

Of  infinite  contentment,  love  and  hope 

She  croons  through  all  the  halcyon  summer  days, 

And  here  she  broods,  among  her  pensive  shades, 

Above  the  heart-sick  folly  of  the  world, 

And  cradles  restless  spirits  into  rest. 

Come,  let  us  go  ;  the  woods  are  calling  us 

With  long,  low  murmurs  —  thither  will  we  roam, 

Among  the  breezy  labyrinths  of  shade  — 


164  MINNE  TONKA . 

Rare  nooks  of  verdure,  where  the  mottled  light 

Toys  with  the  grasses,  as  the  trembling  leaves, 

With  idle  flutterings,  sway  their  slender  fingers, 

And  wave  their  shadows  on  the  velvet  ground. 

Here  pause  and  look  between  the  sylvan  veil 

With  hungry  eyes,  unsatiate  with  delight, 

Like  one  who  sits  before  a  laden  feast, 

While  all  about  him  ring  the  laugh  and  cheer, 

And  quaffs  the  wine  with  long  and  lingering  draughts, 

That  breed  delicious  fancies  in  his  brain 

Of  his  own  vineyards  in  another  land. 

Down  yonder  slope  that  fronts  the  pebbled  sands 
The  supple  grasses  point  their  bending  spears, 
With  slow,  uneasy  motion,  to  the  lake  ; 
And  thither  do  we  turn  our  wandering  eyes, 
Moved  by  no  impulse  save  the  sweet  caprice 
Of  our  own  pleasure. 

From  the  dripping  stones, 
That  glisten  with  the  water's  smooth  caress, 
To  yonder  distant  woodlands,  crowned  with  blue, 
Whose  dimmest  top  salutes  the  vagrant  sight, 
A  dreamy  powrer,  descending  like  a  dove 
With  golden  wings  and  silver-tinted  breast, 


165 


Hovers  serenely  and  enfolds  the  world. 

The  shining  ripples  break  from  light  to  light, 

And  glittei  for  a  moment  in  the  sun, 

Then  sink  away,  to  rise  and  fall  again. 

Mark  how  yon  sails  do  stretch  their  snowy  wings 

Like  far-off  birds  that  skim  the  water  's  edge 

As  if  to  light  !     Ah,  whither  do  they  go  ? 

To  which  of  all  these  hermit  tents  that  hide 

Behind  the  friendly  pillars  of  the  trees 

Their  modest  curtains  ?     Yonder  sail,  perhaps, 

Bears  some  worn  merchant  from  the  clink  of  gold 

To  count  awhile  the  wealth  of  happiness  ; 

Some  scholar  from  his  books,  to  ponder  here 

One  simple  page  from  the  Immortal  pen  ; 

Some  poet,  from  his  shallow,  tinkling  rhymes, 

To  learn  the  rhythm  of  the  winds  and  trees, 

The  accents  of  the  water,  and  the  chimes 

Of  birds  that  call  him  from  his  sleep  at  morn  ; 

Some  listless  slave  of  pleasure,  who  has  learned 

To  love  his  mistress  in  her  simplest  garb  ; 

Or  some  wan  sufferer,  fleeing  from  disease, 

Dips  shrunken  fingers  in  the  dashing  waves, 

And  dreams  of  health  and  happy  days  to  come. 

Oh,  golden  day,  thy  peace  be  with  them  all, 


166  MINNETONKA. 

Circled  by  Nature's  arms  and  lulled  to  rest 
By  mingled  voices,  singing,  as  in  dreams, 
The  drowsy  incantation  of  repose. 

On  yonder  isle,  through  whose  entangled  depths 
The  fervent  sun  scarce  threads  a  narrow  way 
With  solitary  beams,  the  herons  build 
Their  lofty  homes  ;  for  unknown  centuries 
Have  they  been  constant  to  their  trysting-place, 
And  still,  from  those  hereditary  nests, 
Their  broods  rise  up  and  circle  on  the  wing, 
And  wheel  above  the  nestling  bays  that  lie 
Behind  the  misty  headlands  ;  underneath 
Their  lordly  flight  the  sapphire  lake  reflects 
The  blush  of  heaven ;  the  altars  of  the  sun 
Are  newly  lighted  with  a  brighter  flame 
To  beacon  his  departure  o'er  the  world  ; 
Lift  up  your  eyes  !  there's  not  a  western  cloud 
But  hath  a  dye  of  crimson  on  its  breast. 
And  every  cloud  doth  like  a  curtain  hang 
Before  the  sky  ;  but  still  between  the  folds 
That  part  their  silver  fringes  stream  the  rays 
Of  day's  majestic  king,  whose  going  out 
Is  prouder  than  the  glory  of  his  reign. 


17XE  TONKA .  1Q1 

The  earth  is  sleeping,  and  she  dreams  of  Heaven  ! 
If  there's  a  tear  upon  her  glowing  cheek, 
The  sun  will  dry  it  with  the  amorous  touch 
Of  his  bejewelled  fingers;    if  there  be 
One  shadow  on  her  brow,  it  will  but  serve 
To  make  her  smiles  more  radiantly  glad  ! 
Sleep  on,  oh,  Earth  !  the  gates  of  Paradise 
Swing  open  to  thy  dreams  !  the  guardian  swords 
That  dazzled  Eden  with  seraphic  fire 
Flash  down  from  every  snowy  battlement 
Their  flaming  splendor  on  the  forest's  verge. 
A  molten  sea  expands  its  shining  flood 
To  undiscovered  shores,  where  haplv  lies 
Some  wondrous  country,  whose  Elysian  fields 
Bloom  with  all  glories  born  of  sun  and  stars  ; 
Where  happier  birds,  with  richer  plumage,  gleam 
Among  the  groves,  and  pour  with  wilder  stress 
Their  music  on  the  fragrant  atmosphere. 

A  looming  cloud,  like  some  celestial  slope, 
Tinged  with  the  roseate  color  of  the  hour, 
Uplifts  its  massive  summit  ;  at  its  feet 
The  drifted  vessels  of  the  sky  drop  down 


108  M1NNE  TONE  A . 

To  sunlit  ports,  and  furl  their  viewless  sails 
In  waveless  bays,  by  shores  of  rustling  green 

Now  fade  the  brilliant  curtains  of  the  sky, 
And  down  the  west  the  transient  glory  sinks 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  ebbing  sea 
From  which  it  came,  till  only  yonder  clouds 
Are  fringed  with  red,  a  lurid,  burning  hue  — 
And  o'er  the  lake  a  parting  radiance  falls, 
A    somber,  weird  magnificence,  that  fills 
The  hollow  ripples  with  prismatic  fire  — 
A  last,  reluctant  prophecy  of  night. 


MY  FATHER'S  HOUSE. 


Oh,  God,  the  world  is  very  dark  !     I  hear 

(As  one  whose  ear  is  keen  for  sounds  of  woe) 

The  mindless  creatures  of  the  atmosphere 
Sweeping  along  the  billows  of  the  snow, 
Xow  swift,  arid  now  funereally  slow, 

Hurling  about  the  white  and  desolate  sea, 
In  wailing  blasts,  the  winter's  frosty  foam, 

Like  some  lost  spirit,  miserably  free, 

To  wander  blind  beneath  a  starless  dome, 
Without  a  Heaven — as  I  without  a  home. 

ii.  • 

Alas  !  what  memories  of  unvalued  years 

Torment  his  mind  who  stands  upon  the  brink 

Of  hope  and  love  !     Oh,  what  self-pitying  tears 
His  hesitating  agony  must  drink 
Whene'er  he  stops  remorsefully  to  think  ! 
169 


0  MY  FATHER* S  HOUSE. 

Innumerable  faces,  loved  and  lost, 

And  happy  pictures  he  would  hide  in  vain, 

Among  his  thoughts  are  feverishly  tossed, 
And  voices  of  unutterable  pain 
Make  chaos  in  the  midnight  of  his  brain. 


For  now  methinks  the  dial  of  my  life 

Has  shifted  to  the  point  where  all  is  dark  — 

The  dreadful  hour  that  calms  the  pulse  of  strife. 
When  Death's  black  flood  o'erleaps  its  tidal  mark, 
And  washes  out  existence  like  a  spark  ! 

Oh,  Nature,  Mother  Nature,  if  to  be 
In  peace  upon  thv  bosom,  and  to  part 

The  chords  of  time  forever  were  to  die  ! 

But  who  will  trust  thee,  fickle  as  thou  art,  . 
Or  know  what  secrets  slumber  in  thv  heart? 


There  is  some  one  singing  above,  where    the    windows 

are  all  aflame 

With  the  silver  brilliance  that  streams  from  the  starry 
chandeliers  ; 


MY   FATHER'S   HOUSE.  Ill 

The   voice  is  an  alien  one,  but  the  song,  ah,  that  is  the 

same  ! 

What  passionate  fools  are  we,  that  a  sound  can  move 
us  to  tears  ! 

More  pain  is  wrought  by  music  than  ever  this  world 

dreams  of  ; 
It  lures  the  credulous  fancy  with   visions  that  flash 

and  fade. 
As  when  we  reach  our  hands,  in  dreams,  to  a  phantom 

above, 

And   wake  to  find  it  is  nothing,  and  all  is  silence  and 
shade. 

Oh,  beautiful  spirit,  peace  !  —  You  bring  no  comfort  to 

me  ! 
You  are  sweet,  but  bitterly  sweet  ;  you  are  fair,  but 

deathly  fair  ; 

You  marshal  up  from  the  past  the  faces  I  would  not  see, 
And   I   am   weary.  —  wearv  ! — and  stumble   in    very 
despair. 

1  heard  one  saying.  "Come  ;  there  is  light  and  music 
within." 


172  MY  FATBITS'S  HOUSE. 

"  Sir,"  I  replied,  "  I  am  searching  for  rest;  "  and  he 

smiled  with  a  nod  : 
"•  Here  you  shall  find  it  —  rest —  rest  from  all  sorrow  and 

sin. 

There  is  rest,  and  light,  and  music  —  all  three  —  in  the 
kingdom  of  God." 

"  Sir,  I  am  beggared  and  vile"  ;  but  he  said,  as  quick 

as  before, 
''Here    we    need    no   money  —  come,    take    and    eat 

without  price  ; 
The  water  of  life  is  free," — and  he  drew  me  in  at  the 

door, 
Whispering,  "  He  that  repents  is  nearest  to  Paradise." 

There   was  one   who  stood   in   the  midst  whose  visage 

seemed  to  shine 
With  an  inward  light,  like  an  ember  that  glows  to 

the  center  with  heat  ; 
And  methought  that  his  beaming  eyes  looked  wistfully 

into  mine, 

As  he  read  from  the  olden  Book  I  had  trodden  under 
my  feet. 


J/r   FATHER'S  HOUSE.  173 

'•  Come/'  he  said — and  the  word  seemed  to  hang-  upon 

his  lips,  — 

"All  ye  that  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest. 
Why  clo  ye  linger  more  in  your  vile  companionships. 
Feeding    on    swinish    husks,    naked   and    sorely    op 
pressed  ? 

"Come  to  my  Father's  house,  all  ye  who  are  far  away  ; 

There  the  household  of  Christ,  that  nothing  will  ever 

disperse, 
Gathers  age  by  age,  and  there  they  are  singing  to-day 

The  lyrics  of  peace  that  ring  all  over  the  universe. 

"  Where's  he's  that's  athirst  ?     The  hand  of  my  Father 

has  poured 

The  water  of  life  for  him  —  let  him  come  and  drink- 
it  to-night. 
Where  is  he  that  hungers  ?     Come,  sit  at  mv  Father's 

board ; 

A  banquet  for  all  the  world  is  spread   in  the  halls  of 
light. 

"  Oh,   my   brothers,   my   sisters,  like    children    wilfully 
proud, 


174  37 y   FATHER'S  HOUSE. 

Ye    wander    away    in    the    gloom  ;    away    from    the 

Fathers  door, 
Until,  perhaps,  the  voice  that  was  calling  von  far  and 

loud 
Will  die  in  Eternity's  hush,  and  be  silent  forevermore. 

••  But    now    ye    can    hear  the  tone  of    his   patient   and 

pleading  call 
Echo    through    sunless    wilds    of    hidden   crime  and 

distress; 

Oh,  give  back  the  cry,  before  you  stumble  and  fall, 
And  your  feet  go  down  in  the  pit  that  is  miry  and 
bottomless. 

"  Hear  John,  from   the  Isle  of  Patmos — oh,  I  can  see 

him  still, 
Crowned    and    clothed     with     glory,    there    by    the 

Heaven-lit  sea  — 

*  Let  him  that  is  thirsty  come,  and  whosoever  will 
Let  him  drink  of  the  water  of  life  that  is  everlasting 
and  free.' 


THE  SACRED  CHAMBER. 

There  is  a  chamber  in  the  human  heart 
Whose  windows  look  across  Elysian  fields  ; 
Rivers  that  wash  their  smooth  and  diamond  sands 
With  crystal  waves,  unchilled  bv  gloom  or  storm  ; 
Woods  of  immortal  verdure,  wjiere  the  breath 
Of  happy  spirits  stirs  among  the  leaves 
In  peaceful  whispers  ;  hills  upon  whose  slopes 
Perpetual  sunlight,  like  a  golden  veil, 
Unwoven  with  shadows,  wraps  the  inhabitants 
In  the  bright  garb  of  immortality  ; 
Meadows — like  those  which  childhood  loves  to  haunt 
Where  smiling  infinite  multitudes  of  flowers, 
Rich  with  the  tints  of  Heaven,  paint  every  knoll 
And  velvet  hollow,  and  allure  the  steps 
Of  charmed  wanderers  with  fragrant  shapes, 
Of  the  Divine  Imagination  born 
For  spiritual  pleasure  ;  brooks  that  dash 
Harmonious  sounds  from  every  shining  stone, 
And  make  such  an  unwearying  melody 

175 


176  THE  SACKED  CHAMBER. 

That  listening  seraphs  catch  the  flowing  chords 
And  link  the  hills  of  Paradise  with  song  ! 

Oh,  sacred  chamber  !     At  its  humble  door 
No  curious  footstep  ever  cares  to  pause  ; 
The  jeering  voice  of  reckless  blasphemy 
Breaks  not  the  reverent  silence  of  its  peace  ; 
The  dwarfish  passions  of  humanity 
Linger  not  near  it,  for  its  holiness 
Weighs  like  a  condemnation  on  their  heads. 


Power,  with  the  engines  of  ambitious  scorn, 
And  Bigotry,  with  iron,  bloody  hands, 
Have  beat  against  its  adamantine  door 
The  ineffectual  tempests  of  their  wrath, 
Till,  worn  with  fury,  they  have  crept  away, 
Spent  with  the  madness  of  their  own  revenge, 
Yet  still  across  that  chamber  falls  the  light 
Of  Paradise,  and  through  the  windows  steal 
The  benisons  of  spiritual  lives, 
Borne  on  the  zephyrs  of  eternity  ! 

Here  lonely  age  shall  put  his  staff  aside, 
And  feel  the  promise  of  undying  youth 


THE  SACKED  CHAMBEH.  177 

Stir  in  his  veins,  by  sorrows  half  congealed. 

Here  the  frail  child,  neglected  by  mankind, 

Shall  lay  her  fingers  in  the  hands  of  God, 

And  her  meek  lips  forget  their  trembling  speech 

In  saintly  converse  with  another  world. 

Here  the  wan  mother,  from  whose  patient  cheek 

Time's  hand  has  stolen  loveliness  and  youth, 

May  lean  her  head  upon  angelic  breasts 

And  dream  of  rest,  unutterably  dear 

To  weary  Love  ;  the  disappointed  fools 

Who  track  wild  Fortune  through  her  mazy  haunts, 

Shall  yearn  for  such  a  cloister  when  the  night 

Of  Death,  or  some  unthought  calamity, 

Surrounds  them,  and  their  miserable  deeds 

Rise  up,  like  phantoms,  to  convict  their  lives. 

And  well  for  them  if  such  divine  repose 

Shall  crown  their  fruitless  wanderings,  and  they  die 

Beneath  the  shelter  which  had  been  a  jest 

In  the  vainglorious  noontide  of  their  days. 

Oh,  Blessed  chamber  !  they  who  enter  it, 
Though  they  be  clowns,  shall  have  the  grace  of  kings  ; 
Though  they  be  mocked,  oppressed,  and  spit  upon 
By  the  proud  world,  seraphic  dignity 


178  THE  SAC II ED  CHAMBER. 

Shall  clothe  them  with  a  mantle  dropped  from  Heaven  ! 

Bathed  in  the  holy  sunlight  of  the  place, 

The  waiting  soul  looks  out  with  tranquil  eyes 

Across  the  visioned  future,  leans  to  feel 

Balm-laden  winds  refresh  the  brow  of  thought, 

And  listens  in  the  pensiveness  of  faith 

To  hear  deep  echoes  of  enraptured  tongues 

Repeat  the  whisper  of  immortal  hope. 


LITTLE    NELL    IN    THE    CHURCH  -  TOWER. 

Sitting  in  the  old  gray  tower, 
Round  whose  venerable  height 
Fades  the  last  pale  thread  of  light 

Into  twilight's  sombre  hour  ; 

Rapt  in  infinite  content, 
With  the  Bible  on  her  knee, 
Sometimes  in  my  thought  I  see 

The  pale  watcher  as  she  bent, 

Motionless  and  reverent, 

O'er  the  page,  and  felt  a  new, 

Perfect  meaning,  as  she  read, 
Like  a  vision  shining  through, 

From  the  spaces  overhead. 

Nearer  Heaven  than  earth  she  seems, 
With  her  slight  and  wasted  frame, 
Full  of  spiritual  dreams, 

179  , 


180  LITTLE   NELL. 

Only  earthly  in  the  name  ; 
And  the  moonlight's  dawning  beams 

Seem  to  shed  an  aureole 
On  the  drooping  crown  of  hair, 

And  a  blessing  on  the  soul 
That  is  resting  from  its  care. 

Up  from  meadow,  brook  and  heath, 
Wood  and  hill  and  drowsy  town  ; 

From  the  ghostly  aisles  beneath, 

Where  the  moonlight  trembles  down 

From  the  chamber  of  the  dead, 
At  whose  greenly  curtained  door 
Much  she  loves  to  ponder  o'er 

Lives  unwritten  and  unread,— 
Steals  a  mild,  prophetic  bieath, 

Whisp'ring  of  a  life  to  cease  — 
'T  is  the  pursuivant  of  Death, 

Bearing  messages  of  Peace. 

Oh,  what  heart  that  beats  for  love 

Doubts  that  somehow  Love  can  draw 
Through  the  veil  of  mournful  law, 

Sunlight  from  a  world  above  ? 

o 


LITTLE   NELL.  1S1 

And  that  spiritual  sense, 
Like  the  fragrance  of  a  flower 
Hidden  by  the  evening  hour, 

Is  immortal  recompense 
For  a  failing  earthly  power  ! 

All  her  wanderings  are  complete  ; 

All  her  silent  grief  and  fears, 

All  her  weariness  and  tears, 
Sink  like  shadows  at  her  feet, 
Where  all  earthly  pathways  meet 

By  that  river  in  whose  tide 
Human  footsteps  melt  away 
From  the  sight  of  them  who  stay, 

Weeping,  at  the  river-side. 

Oh,  they  say  that  she  was  laid 

In  the  quaint  old  burial-ground, 

Where  each  year  the  cherished  mound 
Blossoms  in  the  summer  shade, 

Where  the  flowers  she  loved  so  well  — 
Emblems  of  a  lovelier  soul  — 
Scatter  from  the  humble  knoll 

Memories  of  Little  Nell. 


182  C HEISTS  COMPANIONSHIP. 

But  I  love  the  best  to  think 
That  she  sits  alone  with  God 

In  the  old,  time-hallowed  place  — 
Not  a  creature  of  the  sod, 

Faltering  on  destruction's  brink, 

But  of  a  celestial  race, 

And  with  glory  in  her  face 
Such  as  mortal  never  wore, 
Save  at  Heaven's  open  door. 


CHRIST'S  COMPANIONSHIP. 

Let  me  come  more  near  to  Thee, 
Christ,  my  Savior,  Christ,  my  king 

Stretch  Thine  arms  so  close  to  me 
I  can  grasp  thy  hands  and  cling. 

I  am  nothing,  if  not  Thine  — 
Nothing,  if  I  cannot  plead 

That  Thy  sacrifice  divine 

Answers  my  immortal  need. 


CHRIST'S  COMPANIONSHIP.  183 

Let  me  suffer  what  I  may, 

Let  me  tread  on  thorns  of  woe   ; 
So  Thy  feet  are  on  the  way, 

I  am  fearless  where  I  go. 

If  Thou  talkest  with  my  soul, 

Every  other  voice  may  cease  — 
All  the  world,  from  pole  to  pole, 

All  the  universe,  is  peace. 

Who  can  say  he  is  alone, 
Though  from  all  he  walks  apart. 

If  he  hears  Thy  blessed  tone 
Fill  the  spaces  of  his -heart  ? 

Thou  art  with  me,  oh,  my  Lord  ! 

Let  that  tender  thought  suffice. 
All  my  toil  is  but  reward, 

All  mv  sorrow,  Paradise  ! 


SONNET  —  PATIENCE . 

My  prayer  is  but  for  patience  —  strength  to  bear 

Whate'er  of  grief  or  weariness  is  mine  ; 

Patience  to  watch  the  star  whose  light  will  shine 
Above  the  unknown  haven  of  my  prayer, 
Beyond  regret,  or  sorrow,  or  despair  ; 

Patience  to  feel  that  purposes  divine, 

Like  threads  of  golden  adamant,  entwine 
Among  the  chains  that  we  are  doomed  to  wear  ; 
Patience  to  climb  life's  mist-enshrouded  height 

With  doubtful  steps,  or,  pausing  by  the  way, 
Await  the  dawn  of  the  o'erwhelming  light, 

Whose  rays  shall  sweep  the  heavy  gloom  away, 
And  show  Heaven's  far-off  country  to  my  sight, 

Bathed  in  the  glow  of  God's  transcendent  day. 


184 


TRIBUTES  TO  FRIENDSHIP. 


TO    MISS 


As  one  who  tosses  in  fever, 

And  weeps  alone  in  the  dark, 
Hears  through  his  glimmering  lattice 

The  heavenward  song  of  the  lark, 
And,  looking  up  from  his  pallet, 

For  a  sign  of  the  coming  day, 
Sees,  on  the  floor  of  his  chamber, 

A  slender  and  golden  ray  ; 

So  to  my  restless  conscience, 

In  its  gloom  of  unsatisfied  pain, 
Your  voice  floated  sweet  through  the  darkness 

That  hung  over  spirit  and  brain, 
And  methought  thro'  the  black-curtained  windows 

That  oped  from  my  shadowy  soul, 
A  beam  of  the  light  everlasting 

From  the  morning  of  Paradise  stole. 
185 


186  TRIBUTES  TO  FRIENDSHIP. 

Perhaps,  when  the  infinite  splendor 

That  rolls  from  Eternity's  throne 
Pours  full  on  that  holy  assembly 

Whom  God  has  entitled  his  own, 
And  when  your  beatified  spirit 

Bursts  forth  in  its  happiest  song, 
You  will  know  and  be  glad  that  your  music 

Has  gathered  one  soul  to  that  throng. 


TO  MISS  c.  D. 

Men  love  to  say,  "  The  world  is  wide  ! " 

Yet  some  few  narrow  strips  of  earth 
Hold  all  their  sorrow,  all  their  pride, 

Their  dreams  of  love,  their  hours  of  mirth. 

Oh,  narrow  spots  !  but,  oh,  howr  dear, 

How  rich  their  soil,  from  whence  upspring 

The  flowers  of  life  we  cherish  here, 

And  whence  our  heavenward  thoughts  take  wing  ! 

Whene'er  your  constant  memories  turn 
To  that  one  spot  we  both  possess. 


TRIBUTES  TO  FRIENDSHIP.  187 

And  your  pure  fancies  brighter  burn 
In  radiant  flames  of  happiness, 

Then  grant  this  simple  boon  to  me  — 
Whom  you  unconsciously  have  taught  — 

Among  your  reveries  to  be 

Companion  of  a  wandering  thought. 


TO    MISS    L.    K.,    ON     HER    MARRIAGE. 

Although  we  regret  that  we  cannot  be  present 
To  see  you  launch  forth  in  the  vessel  of  bliss, 

Yet  \ve  trust  that  the  voyage  will  always  be  pleasant, 
And  the  last  of  its  days  be  as  happy  as  this. 

'T  is  a  dangerous  journey,  and  sometimes,  no  doubt, 
The  sea  will  grow  dark  and  the  tempest  arise  ! 

Yet  see  that  the  lamp  of  your  love  go  not  out, 

Nor  the   heaven   of   hope   grow  less   bright  in  your 
eyes. 

Remember  through  life  that  the  oath  which  you  take 
Is  given  to  God,  and  recorded  above  ; 


188  TRIBUTES  TO  FRIENDSHIP. 

He  knows  and  forgives  all  the  blunders  we  make 
When  the   wound  and  the   kiss  are   both   given   by 
love. 

Be  married  in  soul,  that  is  marriage  alone  ; 

God  himself  is  the  minister,  angels  the  guests, 
And  a  cloud  of  His  witnesses  compass  the  throne 

To  smile  on  the  wedlock  of  innocent  breasts. 


TO    F.    E.    C.,    OX    THE    OCCASION    OF    HIS    MARRIAGE, 

* 

If  marriage  be  the  heaven  that  lovers  say, 

I  could  not  wish  you  happier  than  to-day  ; 

But,  love,  methinks,  is  like  the  upward  sun, 

Whose  earliest  glory  is  its  faintest  one  — 

The  first  soft  flush  that  steals  across  the  sight 

Is  but  the  promise  of  the  coming  light ! 

And  so,  I  trust,  the  orb  of  love  will  rise 

With  warmer  radiance  for  your  happy  eyes, 

Each  year  diviner  in  its  cloudless  rays, 

Until  it  reach  the  sunset  of  your  days, 

And  wrapped  in  Time's  last  quiet  glow  of  peace, 

Pass  to  the  world  where  love  can  never  cease  ! 


TRIBUTES  TO  FRIENDSHIP.  189 

And  if  some  shadows  of  your  lot  recall 

The  gloom  of  care  that  lowers  for  us  all, 

Oh,  may  they  be  such  shadows  as  are  cast 

By  summer's  pleasant  woods,  where  you  have  passed 

Among  the  cooling  arbors  of  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  grateful  touches  of  the  breeze  ! 

Such  be  your  path — your  worth  deserves  the  meed 

That  only  crowns  the  man  who  loves  indeed, 

And  for  that  sacred  gift  of  Heaven  —  his  wife  — 

Pledges  with  truth  his  honor  and  his  life  ! 


TO  MISS  F.   c. 

Upon  the  field  of  Friendship  I  will  set 

Some  small  memorial  of  a  happy  day, 
That  you  may  look  thereon  and  not  forget 

How  quickly  friends  are  doomed' to  pass  away 
How  many  happy  hours  we  spend 

Whose  deepest  joy  we  ne'er  express, 
But  carry  outward  to  the  end 

A  secret  store  of  happiness  ! 
Some  flower  of  thought  which  will  not  die  ; 
Some  gem  whose  lustre  will  not  dim  ; 


190  TRIBUTES  TO  FRIENDSHIP. 

Some  strain  of  music  floating  by, 
Friendship's  perpetual  vesper  hymn  ; 

All  these,  I  trust,  or  some  of  these, 
Shall  sweeten  memory  for  you, 

Like  ripples  of  a  fragrant  breeze 
Upon  a  glassy  lake  of  blue. 


TO  vv.  D. 

A  friend  in   the  ranks  of  your  friends  I  have  set 
A  landmark  of   memory  here  for  your  sake, 

That  sometimes,  when  musing,  you  may  not  forget, 
My  link  in  the  chain  that  no  sorrow  can  break. 

TO  MISS  M.  c.  c. 

There  are  some  women  who  appear 
Half  alien  to  our  common  sphere, 
So  much  they  seem  above  mankind 
In  sweet  divinity  of  mind. 

Apart  from  none  they  seem  to  stand, 
Yet  check  the  world's  profaning  hand 
By  that  pure  atmosphere  of    good 
Which  circles  all  true  womanhood. 


TRIBUTES  TO  FRIENDSHIP.  191 

Oh,  to  be  one  of  such  as  these 
Gives  strength  to  suffer,  power  to  please, 
And  more  than  beauty,  wealth  or  place, 
A  Christian  heart,  a  Christian  face. 


TO  C.  H.,  A   FELLOW   CRAFTSMAN. 

We  do  not  set  the  volumes  of  our  lives 

By  days  or  weeks,  but  moments  —  every  breath, 
Word,  look  and  motion  in  its  place  survives, 

To  make  the  book  whose  clasp  is  forged  by  Death 
Type  upon  type,  and  line  succeeding  line, 

Page  upon  page,  until  the  whole  is  done, 
And  read  by  God's  unerring  eye  Divine. 

None  can  correct  it  saving  Christ,  his  Son. 
Oh,  therefore,  set  your  life,  in  thought  and  deed, 
As  for  your  Maker,  not  mankind,  to  read. 


LINES  SET  UP  IN  HIS  BROTHER  S    COMPOSING  STICK. 

Word  by  word  and  line  by  line, 
With  our  silent  thoughts  between, 

Do  we  set  the  book  of  life  — 
See  that  every  proof  is  clean. 


Why  sing  ye  of  Death  as  an  angel  of  black. 
Who  takes  from  our  hearts  what  'will  never  come  back? 
And  ivhy  are  your  faces  so  sombre  with  dread 
When  ye  look  on  the  house  of  a  soul  that  is  Jledf 

Oh,  hushed  be  your  dirges  —  they  jar  on  the  sound 
Of  the  music  that  hallows  the  silence  around; 
Should  mortals  lament  * 


:(See  concluding  paragraph  of  the  INTRODUCTION  to  this  volume.) 
192 


YC   16124 


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